Shattered: The 113th Hunger Games (SYOT)
by cjborange
Summary: Fear is the most basic and the most primitive aspect of the human condition, and that makes it an extremely powerful weapon. This year, President Ahenobarbus Lock intends to use it to its fullest potential. He's tossing the new batch of twenty-four tributes in a cold, rocky arena where they will face their deepest fears. Who will brave the horror, and who will shatter? SYOT closed!
1. Prologue

**Hey guys. Cjborange here, with my second SYOT! The rules and form are on my profile for anybody who would like to submit. The prologue is pretty short; consider checking out my last SYOT (completed, yay!) if you want to sample a bit more of my writing. I hope you enjoy this creepy, mysterious prologue. And I hope I wrote it well enough to get you all to submit tributes :D**

* * *

**Shattered: The 113th Hunger Games**

Fear.

It is the most basic and the most primitive aspect of the human condition. It embodies everything bad and everything terrible the human race has ever seen. Fear is growth, fear is change, fear is the desire to survive and the desire to gain another day.

That's why it's such a powerful tool. Fear is such a versatile weapon that it can be used for most any purpose. It can cut deeper than any knife.

Convince someone that they are powerless against the terrors against them, and you have complete, undivided control over their actions. Make somebody afraid and they sacrifice every fiber of their individuality in the sick, twisted name of your intent.

Throughout the happiest moments of human life, fear never leaves. Fear is like a bug that takes hold of the human body and digs into the skin with claws too powerful to pry off. You can try to ignore it to the best of your ability. You can turn your head so that you don't have to look at its ugly, spiny legs. But it will always be there with you. _Always_.

Terror. Uncertainty. Dread. Panic. Horror. Alarm.

No wonder we have so many words to describe it.

Silvanus Rustellar knew of fear when he signed the Hunger Games into law. He knew of fear when he gathered up the first group of twenty-four innocent children. He knew of fear when he carried them to the Capitol and watched them kill each other with a sick grin on his face.

Coriolanus Snow knew of fear when he slipped a bit of poison into Silvanus' drink at an elaborate dinner party. He knew of fear when he watched everybody at the table go pale and then limp in a matter of seconds.

Ahenobarbus Lock, the current president of Panem, knows of fear. And he plans to use it to its absolute fullest potential this time around.

This man will watch as the tributes ascend into a dark, rocky arena. That's the only thing they'll be able to tell at first. Then they'll start to feel the freezing cold rain pouring down in sheets. Every single drop draws the resolve and the life force out of them. The air tingles and whispers with a thousand different things. Terrible things. Things that make them want to curl up and cry and wait for death to claim them, whether it takes minutes or years.

As the tributes scatter across the arena, they will face their worst fears. They will relive their worst memories. They will literally be sent spiraling down into the deepest, darkest regions of their subconscious. They will know a kind of terror they didn't even know existed. The kind of animal instinct to fight or flee or do anything it takes to survive.

A certain Pixel Watt knew this terror thirty years prior. She knew it when she fled from the bloodbath, the screams of the defenseless kids ringing behind her. She knew it when she watched the huge canine mutt tear the girl from 2 in half. She knew it when she truly realized that those memories would never leave her.

In this new landscape where their deepest nightmares have been willed into solid reality, only one victor will emerge with their life. But they won't be the same person. Not by any stretch of the imagination. They will be a pane of shattered glass taped back together to the point that it can stand without buckling. But nobody will ever be able to see into it.

Their new personality will be unrecognizable. They will be changed in every manner of the phrase and they will never go back to how they once were.

Who will brave the horrors of the one-hundred thirteenth Hunger Games, and who will shatter, everything that makes them _them _carried away by the wind to a terrible place of hopelessness and fear?

Time will tell.

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**Again, I really hope this was good. Please check out my profile if you want to submit :D**


	2. Mentors, Part One

**Two days in, and we already have over twenty submissions! Thanks for all of your tributes, guys. You're going to make this choice so difficult XD I'll be introducing a few of the mentors in each chapter to give you all something to read while submissions come in. Lots of familiar faces here, and a gal you'll especially recognize if you've read Broken. Happy reading :D**

* * *

_Don't stop, make it pop_

_DJ, blow my speakers up._

_Tonight, I'm-a fight_

_'Till we see the sunlight_

_Tick tock, on the clock,_

_But the party don't stop, no._

* * *

**Noble Drazen, 23**

**District 1 Resident and Victor of the 106th Hunger Games**

Taj and I raise our glasses high into the air, watching them sparkle in the turning lights of the Capitol before clinking them together. I put mine to my mouth and shiver at the fiery taste, like a finger of flame has been run down my spine. The other 1 victors do the same, clinking their glasses together in unison. Organdy and Admired. Gloss and Porcelain. Cashmere and Tiger.

"Refills?" Cashmere asks, pulling the bottle of sparkling green wine from underneath the plush, leather limousine seat. She fills Gloss' glass first and goes clockwise from there. I guzzle down the entire contents of my glass in a matter of moments. Taj raises his eyes, looking impressed.

"What? You think a young guy can't drink?"

Taj just laughs. "So what are your plans for the party?"

"What are my plans for the party? What are my plans for the party?! Did you just ask Noble Drazen what he plans to do at the most elaborate party of the last decade?"

I can already picture the sparkling purple lights. The rows of glasses filled with light pink liquid. The bowls of the most elaborately-colored, flavorful food ever prepared in human history. And the dance floor, of course.

"Learned any new moves recently?" Tiger asks from across the vehicle, having turned away from a bit of small talk with Porcelain.

Cashmere refills my glass again. I take a quick sip before responding. "You have no idea. I've been practicing late into the night for this. I've lost sleep over this. This is my night, guys!"

"Five minutes to the destination!" the limo driver shouts.

Cashmere tucks the bottle away. The lot of us peer out of the windows in unison. I press my face up against the glass like a kid trying to see into a fish tank at the zoo. Flashing blue lights flicker and slide across the front wall of the presidential mansion. Jets of mist shoot seemingly of nowhere. A fountain spews glowing, spring-green liquid. Parties always make me feel like I'm young again. Sixteen, maybe, the age I was when I won the games. I know that Cashmere and I will get the very best seats at dinner, because we're mentoring this year. But I don't plan to spend any more time in mine than I have to. A second off of the dance floor is a second wasted, in my opinion.

"To the Hunger Games!" I shout as the limo pulls into the driveway. The mansion looks even more stunning up close.

A crowd of avoxes take our coats and escorts us inside. The whole entry hall has been cleared away to replicate a kind of ballroom. The sound of laughter is perpetual. The swath of colors takes me slightly by surprise, but I've learned to get used to the elaborate fashion sense of those from the Capitol. I kind of had to given enough time, seeing as I'm invited to pretty much every party held in the Capitol. A spotlight rotates swiftly on the ceiling, throwing colored flecks of every single color of the rainbow across the room. Couples dance. A band sits on an elevated platform at the far corner, playing a waltz-like tune.

"Noble! It's been a while, hasn't it?" I turn to my left, where President Lock stands tall and thin, dressed in a black tux. "Check out the new snack line. I added a few new flavors especially for you. I think you'll enjoy them."

"For sure! Great party you've got going here." By the time I come within ten feet of the president, I have three guns pointed at me. Just a security precaution. I've learned to ignore them over the years, though I will admit I flinch slightly at the excessively-loud cocking noise.

I break away after a few minutes of small talk and head over to the snack line with Tiger and Porcelain. Cashmere is on the other side of the ballroom, dancing with a little girl dressed in navy blue. Admired and Organdy are leaned against the flashing wall a few meters away, laughing and sipping a purple drink that fizzes like cola. Gloss has joined in a poker game with three other guys.

"Lots of choices here," Tiger says, feigning a look of intimidation and wiping his brow as his eyes dart over the colorful assortment of food.

"If you don't know what to pick, start with something the color of the last thing you ate and go through the rainbow from there," I suggest, a tip Cashmere gave me a while ago.

I end up filling my bowl with a watery blue soup that smells like the ocean, with several heaping dollops of sugar. Then I get a plate and cover it with little purple berries and an orange, chunky fruit that makes my tongue tingle. I take my seat and take a look at Cashmere's plate. An assortment of colorful vegetables coated with light pink dressing.

In a matter of minutes I've stuffed down too much to eat any more. I grab one of the pink glasses and head to the bathroom, then return to eat the rest of my blue soup. The taste is amazing yet implacable. Sour yet sweet.

The music suddenly stops, and the group falls quiet for a moment.

"And next up, a personal request from President Lock, _Eighties Flashback _by Amazingus Amarillo!" the drummer shouts.

Cheers erupt from the crowd, and I sprint forward, the warmth of life rushing through my veins. This was the song I danced to the night before I left for the Capitol when I was sixteen.

The cheering Capitolites clear away as I take center stage, and a grin crosses my face as the guitarist strikes out the first chord.

* * *

_Like a small boat on the ocean,_

_Sending big waves into motion._

_Like how a single word can make my heart open,_

_I might have only one match,_

_But I can make an explosion._

* * *

**Enobaria Rigatti, 67**

**District 2 Resident and Victor of the 62nd Hunger Games**

My stylist, a dark-haired, middle-aged lady named Clarisse, doesn't look like somebody from the Capitol. Her hair is its natural color, dark and wavy. Her skin is its natural color. A spray of freckles covers her face. It's only when she opens her mouth that you can tell how Capitol-made she really is. She accentuates every single vowel as though trying to drown out the rest of the word, and it's honestly hard to hear what she's saying sometimes. But I've gotten used to her vernacular over the years. As much as I can, at least.

"How does this look, miss?" Clarisse asks, pulling my air up into a high ponytail. I give her the thumbs up, and she tucks my dark ponytail into a stretchy black hair band. Every meticulous strand lands in place with the first stretch.

She adjusts the mirror after that and starts on my makeup. She brushes sparkly pink blush onto my cheeks and a bit of fiery red lipstick onto my lips. They complement my razor-sharp teeth nicely.

While Clarisse puts the finishing touches on my look, my mind wanders somewhat. I haven't mentored in six years, since the 107th games. That year, my girl was decapitated by the strong boy from District 10 only a few days after the bloodbath. This year, I know I'll be mentoring again. The opportunity is both daunting and exciting. The worst-case scenario is that something happens to the volunteer and I'll end up with some flabby kid who can't even hold a sword. But that almost never happens. I'm hoping for a strong, tall girl who's not afraid to voice her opinion. A bit like myself when I was in the games at sixteen.

Clarisse escorts me into the elevator, and I quickly slip a pair of elegant white gloves onto my fingers as we move down eleven floors.

I have to brush my teeth at least twice during the limo ride. Keeping these fangs white is not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination. So much food and plaque and general gunk builds up on them, and my dentist was constantly warning me against the operation when I brought it up to her. But she can fuck off if she thinks she can tell me what to do, honestly.

President Lock has a party every single year, where he invites all of the victors and the gamemakers. I'm not much of a social person myself, but I always have fun going to them. Mostly to chat with the other victors and hear what they've been up to. I feel like the lot of us have something literally nobody else has. Seriously, we can have the most casual and the deepest conversations all in the span of one minute. It's seriously incredible. And who can resist the food, dancing, and music?

I brush my teeth one more time before disembarking from the limo, illuminated by the flashing, turning lights of the presidential mansion. I bare my fangs once to the doorman before grabbing the door myself and sauntering inside.

* * *

_Tonight,_

_We are young._

_So let's set the world on fire, we can burn brighter,_

_Than the sun,_

_Tonight._

* * *

**Pixel Watt, 42**

**District 3 Resident and Victor of the 83rd Hunger Games**

I'm one of the first victors to arrive at the party. When I step through the front door, there are fewer people inside than were excited by President Lock's new labor quotas. From the depths of the mansion, I hear servants stumbling back and forth, trying to prepare the party in time. Two avoxes are clearing away the furniture. A tall guy on a ladder is fixing a disco ball onto the ceiling. A guitarist sits alone on the far platform, tuning his lowest string.

A bell rings behind me. I turn around and see a short avox around age twenty. She gestures for my coat, and I hand it to her.

"Thanks," I murmur as she grabs the hood.

She literally almost falls over, and something feels heavy in my chest. I wonder how long it's been since she heard that.

I fill a cup from the punch bowl and stand near the entrance for the next half hour or so, watching the guests pour in. Tarquinius arrives next, then Arnold, Kasey, Johanna, Annie and Finnick, and Meredith. The whole lot of 1s doesn't arrive until late. By that time, most of the gamemakers, stylists, and a few other wealthy guests have entered.

I'm famously awkward at parties. I end up striking up a conversation with Meredith and following her around the place. I break away from her at the snack line and momentarily stop dead in my tracks.

There's a lot of juice.

_A lot of it._

I have no idea why it fascinates me so much. Juice is literally my least favorite drink. There are at least a hundred different glasses, each with a unique color, spread in a perfect arc across a mahogany wooden table. People are starving in all twelve districts and just because I'm a victor I have a hundred different flavors of juice. The thought is humorous in a sickening way.

That's when I see him, standing in a corner, holding a half-full glass of purple juice. He notices me at the same time and just smiles slightly as I approach him.

"Surge! Haven't seen you in a while. How're things?"

"They're fine, Pixel," he says. "Great, actually."

We talk for about half an hour before reverting to the obligatory awkward-silence breaker. We've only been discussing the weather for a few seconds when I bring up something about how cold it was last night. I say I haven't been that cold since the night I spent on the mountain in my games, and I instantly hate myself for saying it. None of us need to be reminded of the things we've gone through.

"It's fine," Surge says when I try to apologize. "We've all been there. All of us at this party, at least. I kinda lucked out, being so young in the games. I hardly remember anything."

I desperately want to ask what he remembers, but I hold my tongue. He must read my mind or just see the look in my eyes, because he answers the question.

"Yeah, I remember a few things. I remember bouncing against Mom's leg when she carried me. I remember the song she sang to me. And… and…"

"You don't have to talk about…"

"And I remember the last kiss she gave me. Before she killed herself." Surge's voice is cold and hollow.

At first I'm not sure how to respond. "Just know that she'd be proud of you now," I end up saying. It's a lame and overused attempt at consolation, but I don't have anything else. Really, it keeps every ounce of my self-control to keep from trash-talking the Capitol right here and now, but I keep my mouth shut. Because there's no way that can end well. Especially not with the surveillance cameras every ten feet and the dozens of hidden peacekeepers ready to shoot us at a moment's notice. Like a dystopian novel series or something.

I keep struggling for words, but I really can't think of anything. I just wrap my arms around him and we both cry a million tears.


	3. Mentors, Part Two

**A/N: Thanks for all of your submissions, and I hope you enjoy these three! As a reviewer asked, I'll try not to spoil any of the victors I haven't yet covered in 23 Cannons :D**

* * *

_Make me your radio,_

_Turn me up when you feel low._

_This melody was meant for you._

_Just sing along to my stereo._

* * *

**Talisa Plummer, 50**

**District 4 Resident and Victor of the 81st Hunger Games**

The warm summer wind caresses my face in a comforting way as I step out of the car. The flashing lights of the presidential mansion feel like daggers in my eyes. I squint all the way to the door, and it swings open before I can land a second knock.

I spend most of the first half of the party in a corner, all by myself. The only reason it doesn't make me look suspicious is because so many of the other victors are doing the same thing. Most of them holding glasses of alcohol and most of them looking like they're considering faking their own deaths to get out of this place.

In the first few years after my victory, my patriotism and my victor resolve was like steel. I attended every party and public ceremony with fervor. I even managed to raise a few laughs from the others. But I'm not nearly as young as I once was. I can't spin around on one foot quite as fast or down a pint quite as quickly as I could on my victory tour.

About ten minutes later, one of the other victors steps out of the crowd. Her whiskered mouth curls upward at one end in a half-smile when she sees me. Dock never smiles entirely, only halfway. Kind of sad when you think about it.

"Great party, eh?" Dock murmurs, taking a sip of her drink.

"Sure," I respond, and for the first time I notice the bags under her eyes. "Rough night?"

She makes a sour face. "He had the worst breath. I literally almost threw up." I don't need to ask her anything else. "You?"

"Normal." It's really sad when normal is a three-hundred pound man with garish green hair that likes chaining my wrists together and slapping me in the face while making noises that sound like a discount air raid siren.

"Are you a mentor next week, Tal?" Dock asks as an avox in a tuxedo refills her cup.

"Yeah. They pretty much cycle between Annie and I. How many times have you had to mentor since you won?"

"Once," Dock says. "Both tributes killed in the bloodbath. My family must have been seriously worried. But nothing happened to them."

I nod in agreement. Just because we admire the Capitol doesn't mean we have to admire everything they do.

The next hour or so of the party is pretty bland. Annie and Finnick come past, and Dock joins into the conversation. I figure a group of four is too large to be functionally moving around in a room where people are practically stampeding each other as is. So I say goodbye to Dock and weave through the crowd for a few minutes, counting the colors the disco ball throws onto the elaborately-carved wooden walls. I spot Arnold standing alone in a corner and strike up a conversation with him. It doesn't last long. Arnold's a great friend, and I don't see him often, but he's a bit too Capitol-oriented for my liking. Even his speech has changed over the years, morphing from a friendly tone to one that sounds like a grammar school teacher reprimanding a class for a messy floor. Then I find Enobaria, who's also mentoring this year. That conversation lasts a lot longer. Career tributes are always close. The common line of training and killing tributes binds us like oath. Sometimes I actually think we can read each other's minds.

"Any ideas on who your tribute'll be?" Enobaria asks.

I shake my head. "I haven't spent much time around the academy lately. I've been living mostly in the Capitol, actually. President Lock has me in high demand."

Enobaria frowns, covering her razor-sharp teeth. "Really Tal? Bummer. I've been spending time at the academy just to get a look at the students. The candidates for tribute, yanno? There are a few girls I really like. I think this can be my year if I play my cards right."

I know for a fact Enobaria would never talk like that to anyone outside of a career district. The lot of us really are bound together by default. Life in Panem can take you down to the dumps, but friends always make things a tad bit easier. As easy as they can get, at least. It's not like constantly being reminded of the arrogant mistakes you made in your youth is on anyone's bucket list.

* * *

_Once I was seven years old, my mama told me,_

"_Go make yourself some friends or you'll be lonely."_

_Once I was seven years old._

* * *

**Surge Upsdell, 35**

**District 5 Resident and Victor of the 78th Hunger Games**

I remember.

I swear it. I swear it on my life and I swear it on everything good there is in the world. I know I was only a few days old, but I'm absolutely certain I remember.

I remember my mom Cynthia most of all. Over the years I've managed to fashion my own image of her face. I definitely imagine her with my eyes, but with a much softer, rounder face. A clear countenance, which I definitely don't have. I don't know for sure. Aunt Kate made sure I never saw tapes of my games, and as an adult I've actively avoided them like the plague.

The weirdest thing is that I don't remember her as a person. I remember her as a kind of positive energy; a warmth in the darkness. Like the glimmer of external sensation when you're in that weird place between awake and asleep.

And while I can't remember what Cynthia sounded like, I definitely remember what Theo did. Of course I had no idea what he was saying. I've pored over the tantalizingly faint memories over and over again. I've struggled with all my might to recall just one thing he said to me or Mom.

He had a quiet voice, if you're wondering. Kind.

Pixel reminds me of Cynthia more than anybody I've never met. I've never thought of her as a friend. More of a sibling. My sister in literally every single way except blood.

When Pixel accidentally brings up the games, the memories come flooding back. For me, "memories" are more like flashes. Single instants where I feel like I can remember just what it felt like to have my mother standing next to me.

She pulls away from the hug after about a minute. It's only then that I realize that she's crying too. I don't really know what her crying sounds like. Whenever she's crying it's because I'm crying. And the noises blend perfectly together.

"I'm really sorry I brought that up," Pixel says.

"No worries. I think I'm imagining things. I probably don't remember after all," I say, which is a lie. Anything to ease the guilt.

In many ways, I actually have lucked out. My memories are way fainter than they are in the other victors. I've seen what happens to the victors like Chipson and Alexander. They drink bottles of alcohol at a time and get so drunk they can hardly stand.

So the universe is just like a lottery, then. You buy a ticket when you're born, and that's the one you have to play with, no matter how crap it is. We all lost the lottery by landing in Panem. But maybe the blissful unawareness and a friend like Pixel mean my ticket was a winner after all.

Pixel is still crying, looking just like a little bird cold and wet in the rain. So I give her my wing to hide under.

* * *

_I think you hide,_

_When all the world's asleep and tired._

_You cry a little, so do I, so do I._

_I think you hide,_

_And you don't have to tell me why._

* * *

**Apollo Reinold, 58**

**District 6 Resident and Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games**

"I need another hit."

"That's fifty Caps."

"That's a deal."

Coren reaches into his pack and pulls out a small syringe. We swap the syringe and the money, and I instantly plunge it into my arm. The relief is immediate; the drug takes control of my entire body, wrapping me in a crisscrossing net of ropes that freeze like ice. Before long, I literally can't feel myself at all. My thoughts are dull and jumbled. I see my feet kicking in front of me, knocking into old garbage cans and the side of the old, broken buildings, but I don't feel myself moving them.

Wow. That feels fucking incredible.

Coren takes out the alcohol next, and the two of us down our bottles in a matter of moments. Burnie tries to push away the bottle because he's paranoid about alcohol poisoning or some shit, and Coren ends up splashing it into his face.

The round of bottles and joints and syringes goes on seemingly forever. There are never peacekeepers in this area, and this is the best place I've found to get the drugs I need to block those fucking stupid memories. I'm supposed to board the train to the Capitol in fifteen minutes. Because that bitch President Lock is having one of those big victor parties again. The bastard.

I say goodbye to Burnie and Coren, throw a hundred more Caps in their faces for all of the alcohol, and then rush away to the Victor's Village. It's fucking ridiculous how much better I feel with every addictive substance known to man coursing through my veins.

Is it unhealthy? Yeah. Is it illegal? You bet. But it makes me forget. And my life is already trashed, how much worse can things get?

I quickly change into something nice, and a heavy knock comes on the door. I rush downstairs and open the door, and two peacekeepers grab me by either shoulder, flanking me like wingmen as we start toward the train. My suitcase bumps and rolls at my side.

The train ride is extremely long and extremely boring. The peacekeepers say we should probably reach the Capitol at two or three in the morning if there aren't any problems.

I lie in bed for hours, tossing and turning. After my huge splurge earlier today, I wasn't planning on drinking any more, but I find myself rolling out of bed and shuffling toward my suitcase when the damn memories come back. Maybe I'll stay sober tomorrow.


	4. Mentors, Part Three

**A/N: I'm loving your guys' submissions, please keep them coming. I've decided on April 17 for the closing date. That's three days from today, and I hope it gives everyone who wants to submit plenty of time :D**

* * *

_Fuck you._

_Fuck you very, very much,_

'_Cause we hate what you do_

_And we hate your whole crew._

_So please, don't stay in touch._

* * *

**Johanna Mason, 59**

**District 7 Resident and Victor of the 71st Hunger Games**

I get to the party as late as possible. That way I don't have to listen to all of the others' bickering about how scared they are. Naturally, I was scarred by my games. Nowadays I only wake up screaming a few days a week. I've learned to put the past behind me, but that doesn't mean I still don't hate the Capitol.

"Forgive your enemy but never forget his name." I read that in an illegal book when I was ten. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but something about it resounded with me. It should be my motto. I should hang it on a blue silk banner over my door, fuck the consequences.

My mind wanders throughout the limo ride. My parents were both rebels. I was born in the back of a wagon that was smuggling explosives across district borders. They were both killed that day. Shot by peacekeepers. A fifteen-year-old girl picked me up off of the ground a few hours later. Her name was Sequoia, and the two of us trudged around the district for five entire years, sleeping under bridges and begging for change. Eventually we came to a small cabin, and Sequoia knocked on the door.

The door creaked open and a small woman appeared in the doorway.

"Do you know the word of God?" the woman asked after Sequoia requested shelter.

"The word of God is my vow," Sequoia said, touching three different parts of her chest. I didn't know what that meant either, but it must have been the right thing for her to say, because the woman welcomed us inside.

They taught me how to spell and use a spoon and all that jazz, all while shoving some random book in my face and telling me it would save my soul.

They gave me my name, Johanna. "Grace of God."

The woman never told me her name. One day, I asked her why people were starving in all twelve districts if God was benevolent and kind. She beat me half to death. I was ten then, and I ran away that night. The peacekeepers found me in ten seconds and threw me in the orphanage. That place was hell on earth, but at least I had warm clothes and three meals a day.

The limo ride takes a million years, and the car has to be inspected front to back at least ten times before we can enter the Capitol. I make sure to snore especially loudly, just to piss off the peacekeepers in return. The presidential mansion eventually comes into sight, and I yank the limo door open myself and strut to the front entrance, the folds of my dress spinning around my feet.

So you say a few naughty words in an interview and hurt the little Capitol's feelings, and for the rest of your life you have to be searched up and down before you can enter the presidential mansion?

Yeah, fuck that.

* * *

_I been hanging on threads,_

_I been playing it straight._

_Now I've just got to cut loose_

_Before it gets too late._

_I am going._

_I am going._

_I am gone._

* * *

**Poplin Amsden, 44**

**District 8 Resident and Victor of the 82nd Hunger Games**

"Check."

Bobbin smiles slightly as he shifts his rook to the left, placing my king in its path. The chessboard is a pretty thing, fashioned from mahogany. Every piece is delicately crafted from ivory and engraved with a unique pattern. I found it in the closet of my home the day I moved into the Victor's Village. Now I take it to pretty much every social event I'm invited to.

"Well, are you gonna move?"

I set my finger on my king piece, turning it slightly in thought. I can't move it to the left, because that would place it in the path of Bobbin's bishop. If I move it to the right, he'll be able to move his queen piece slightly and place it in checkmate. It's blocked by a pawn piece from behind. I can only move forward.

I make my move, and Bobbin purses his lips. With my next move, I take out his pawn piece. Two or three moves later, he has my king in check once more.

"Who's winning?"

Kasey steps out of the crowd, wearing a shining silver dress and, by the looks of things, several heavy layers of makeup. Rose-colored lipstick paints her lips. She looks amazing.

"I am," I say, crossing my arms across my chest in mock victory. "But he has my king in check."

The game continues for about ten more minutes. I end up moving my bishop piece in harm's way just so it blocks my king. Bobbin knocks it out, allowing me to take out his rook with a rook of my own.

Before long, the number of pieces has been diminished enormously. Bobbin only has his king and three pawns, while I have my king alongside the queen (which I reclaimed with one of my pawns a few minutes earlier), both bishops, and a rook.

It's with satisfaction that I slide my queen piece into place. "Checkmate."

"Eh, you got me," Bobbin says, frowning. "But I swear I'll get you next time, I will."

The place is much fuller than it was when we started the game. The party animals from 1 are crowded nearby, chatting and drinking and saying crazy things to one another. Arnold stands a few meters away, sweeping his eyes back and forth across the crowd with an empty look in his eyes. Meredith and Sickle stand near the punch bowl. Peacekeepers weave through the crowd, pointing their guns left and right and inspecting random guests just because they can. Other than that, this area of the mansion is surprisingly empty.

"I've got to be going now," Kasey says. "It was great talking to you."

"No chance," Bobbin says as Kasey disappears into the crowd.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. I see the way you look at her."

"You like her to. Don't even try to lie to me."

I pack the chess board the rest of the way up and head over the snack line, noticing how loud my stomach is grumbling for the first time.

* * *

_Slow heart dark wait down love black canvas,_

_Resolve within, you understand._

_Fragile earth where cracks in the temperature_

_Keep it cool to give, you understand._

* * *

**Sickle Salgato, 40**

**District 9 Resident and Victor of the 88th Hunger Games**

District 9 isn't a superpower. I'll start off by saying that, even though it's common knowledge that our reputation isn't exactly gold.

We're the third largest district, behind only Districts 7 and 11 in size. There are eight cities on the outskirts of the district called the Ports, and that's where ninety percent of the population lives. The Ports are more industrialized than anywhere else in the district; I'm pretty sure there isn't a single slum house in any of them. And people have nice gardens there. I saw a few on my Victory Tour. The wheat comes and goes from the eight Ports, and the rest of the district, where one tenth of the population lives, is pretty much made up of solid golden grain. It has to be golden and perfect for the Capitol—I'm pretty sure the main reason the district is so poor is because so much money is spent on water and fertilizer and not on affordable housing for the people who actually grow the wheat.

The thing is, we don't start work in the fields until age nineteen, one year after reaping elegibility. Now and again, you'll see a younger teenager slaving away under the boiling sun if they're really needed. Other than those unlucky few, life is pretty comfortable for minors in District 9.

Which is exactly why we have so few victors. In the first Hunger Games century, only three tributes from District 9 ever made it home. Rye and Barley. And me.

Sickle Salgato, by the way. Pleasure.

When the dance finally ends and it's time for dinner, President Lock calls all of the victors to the dance floor and tells us to group by district. The careers districts have the largest groups, District 2 the most of all. A few other districts, like 3, 5, and 7, have respectable numbers as well. And then there's District 9. Me and just a few others standing in an ill-lit corner that the spinning disco light almost never illuminates.

A crowd of avoxes appears out of nowhere, and they start grabbing tables from the next room and unfolding them. They work at a remarkable speed. Each table has a number stamped onto it, and we all know what to do when Lock tells us to sit down. The District 2 victors have to cram together to fit onto the bench-like seating of their table. I have several yards all to myself. I can even afford to bring my feet up and rest them on the opposite bench.

The food comes next, whole piles of it, and it's dished out in a matter of moments. I've only just started digging into my chocolate cake (from District 11) when someone throws a plate of chicken in front of me (District 10's work, probably). It turns into a kind of game, trying to land what district everything comes from. A sick game, really.

I feel absolutely disgusting eating it, but I'm hooked on the flavor in a matter of seconds and then I can't stop eating.

Afterward, I run to the bathroom and throw everything back up into the toilet. I don't even need one of the special pink glasses.


	5. Mentors, Part Four

**A/N: Two more days left if you want to leave a submission! I hope you enjoy these last three :D**

* * *

_Work it harder,_

_Make it better,_

_Do it faster,_

_Make us stronger._

* * *

**Steer Drudgers, 37**

**District 10 Resident and Victor of the 94th Hunger Games**

It's with shame that I shake my glass slowly back and forth, watching the expensive scotch splashing against the sides of the glass container. I hate it. It hate the way it looks and I hate the way it tastes. It sets off a flame in my throat that makes me cough for almost a minute straight. The one thing I like about it is the way it makes me forget.

The lights dim, plunging the dance floor into darkness. The disco ball flares to life, throwing small pieces of blue and green light onto the walls and floor. The band in the corner starts playing something peppy, and a couple knocks into me, almost knocking me off my stool.

"Sorry," I murmur, wiping the spilled alcohol off the floor. If they knew I was Steer Drudgers, they would be the ones rapidly apologizing.

Which isn't a good thing. At all. I hate being famous. For killing children.

President Lock calls dinner once the last dance comes to a close. He tells us to group together by district, and I find myself standing with every other living victor District 10 has. Margaret is a short, stocky lady with brown hair. She was the first ever tribute from District 10 to make it home with her life. Alexander is much taller, and he has a long, gaunt face with black stubble. Everything about him just looks sad. I've always thought I should say something to him, but he never responds. Fiona is much more young and lively. She and I will be mentoring this year.

"This is a lot of fruit," Fiona laughs when an avox throws a scoop of strawberries and cream onto her plate.

I nod. "Best of the best, specially for us. How lovely." My tone rings with sarcasm.

Margaret stares daggers at me. "Don't talk about the Capitol like that in here. Do you have a death wish?"

She's literally the most stereotypical old lady I've ever seen. With the voice and the cane and the weird smell and everything.

I have to admit she has a point, though. So I turn the conversation toward the weather, and that keeps us going for a few minutes. I pour a little more scotch into my glass while Fiona tells a joke that makes Margaret and even, gasp, Alexander, laugh.

Thinking about Alexander makes me think about how I really am one of the lucky ones. I won my games without much trouble. I earned a ten in my private session, and it kind of just naturally came down to me and two careers. One of them was blown up for going insane, and taking down Sunken from 4 was the only difficult bit. I literally tore out his eyeball.

The memory makes me gag. Fiona looks up in concern.

"Stomachache," I lie.

She just smiles. "I've got some medicine in my purse if you want some."

"Thanks."

As she hands me the pills, I'm instantly reminded of the pills handed from teen to teen in District 10 in a much more illegal manner. We definitely have the biggest drug problem besides District 6.

I take the pills down with a swig of water and then cross my arms over my chest, leaning back and letting the darkness consume me.

* * *

_I was breathing, but not alive._

_All my failures I tried to hide._

_It was my tomb,_

'_Til I met you._

* * *

**Cyndala Veiche, 34**

**Capitol Citizen and Mentor for District 11**

I walk home from the party alone. I'm legally allowed to do that, unlike the victors, who need a constant bodyguard force whenever they're in the Capitol. I'm the only mentor who actually lives here.

I'm not a district citizen. I never was. I just took the job of mentor when District 11's last victor died (too young, mind you). I had some background. I'd visited the career districts and taken a look at their academies, just out of curiosity.

The only reason I chose the job was because I thought it would skyrocket my name to fame. I wanted to be a fashion designer at the time. I probably had three entire spiral notebooks filled with dresses and shoes I'd sketched out over the course of my life.

My first trip to District 11 was a wake-up call. I saw the poverty and the disease first-hand. When I drove through in the train, a whole group of people swarmed us, banging against the walls of the train and begging to be saved from the terrible lives they were living.

Ever since then, this Capitol girl has been a whole-hearted rebel.

Not on the front-lines, of course. Nobody knows it, but I'm the one who anonymously sends sponsor gifts to the tributes with rebel background, no matter how expensive it is. I'm the one who always clogs the toilets in the presidential mansion whenever I'm invited. I'm the one who rigged up that bucket of freezing water to dump on the president's head when he walked out of his bedroom.

I arrive home in a matter of minutes and unlock the front door. My fiancé is away for business, so I have the house all to myself.

I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and step into my pajamas. Nothing super extravagant, just light pants and a cotton shirt that I can easily sleep in. Seriously, I can't believe these other Capitolites sometimes. As a teenager, I headed over to a friend's house for a sleepover, and her mom wore a sparkly dress and diamond rings to sleep.

Sometimes I don't know whether I should feel flustered or concerned.

Because the fashion sense and the sheer stupidity that everyone in this city seems to have is not natural.

I sketch a few more dresses that popped into my head today before slithering underneath the covers. I fall asleep surprisingly fast, and I might dream about dresses, I don't know.

* * *

_Hush child._

_The darkness will rise from the deep._

_And carry you down into sleep, child,_

_Guileless son._

* * *

**Arnold Scruggs, 39**

**District 12 Resident and Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games**

I'm one of the last victors to clean the party. I want to spend as much time here as possible. The presidential mansion is truly a marvel of architecture and sheer Capitol culture and I can't help but admire every single thing about it.

When I finally do leave, it's because the avoxes are coming to clean out the living room and I can't be in their way.

Two peacekeepers flank me like wingmen as I walk from the front door to the limo that will carry me to the hotel where I'll be spending most of the next three months. I love the Capitol. I love the lights at night and I love the citizens' fashion senses and I love their mentality. That the world is getting better every single day.

It's truly a land of prosperity and wealth. I would live my entire life here if I could.

I pretend not to hear the things the other victors say behind my back. About how stupid it is to see a District 12 victor so involved with the Capitol. But they just don't understand how much the Capitol has given to us. If they counted all of the things the Capitol does for them I'm sure they would be bowing as deeply as I do every day.

The hotel room is spacious and comfortable. A large glass window occupies the entire wall, showing an almost panoramic view of the beautiful Capitol.

The entire system of Panem is beautiful, in a way. A perfect circle of balance. The districts provide goods for the Capitol, and they provide government and security.

I spend the next hour or so reading. I picked up a volume at the local bookshop about a week ago and I haven't been able to put it down. Historical fiction. _We all Fall Down _by Drusilla Sanderson. Lots of people are intimidated by the length and the complexion of the story, but it's simple when it's all boiled down. It's just about love. People falling in love. Killing for love. Dying for love.

How thankful I am to live in this world.


	6. The Tributes

**Once again, thanks for ALL of your submissions. You guys made this choice seriously difficult, but I have finally picked one tribute for each slot to use in the SYOT. PLEASE do not take personal offense if your tribute was not accepted. There are some seriously great submissions I didn't get to use here. If your tribute was accepted, congratulations! :D**

* * *

_With our backs to the wall,_

_The darkness will fall._

_An empire is falling,_

_In just one day._

_You close…_

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

"Good evening Panem!" Fletcher Sanders shouts, bending forward in a deep bow. The audience explodes with applause, and as he stands up, his midnight-black hair swivels around his heart-shaped face.

Fletcher puts on a smile as the applause fades. "Tonight, it's my honor to commentate the twelve reapings of the one-hundred thirteenth Hunger Games. To view them for the very first time with all of you. Whether you're in the audience or you're watching this from anywhere else in Panem, I'm so glad you could show up."

I take a short swig of my wine, letting the flavor engulf my tongue as the first reaping comes on.

* * *

**The Tributes**

District 1 Female – Jade D'Amore/DefoNotAFangirl  
District 1 Male – Midas Sinthra/Darkdemon27

District 2 Female – Kennedy Coil/MonkeyPower435  
District 2 Male – Gaius Alabaster/Writer207

District 3 Female – Monita Lidell/DefoNotAFangirl  
District 3 Male – Bernie Tropello/2017tnt

District 4 Female – Vista Juarez/2017tnt  
District 4 Male – Dock Breckminn/CragmiteBlaster

District 5 Female – Gwyneth Lenaisse/LiveFreeOrDie  
District 5 Male – Newton Zhang/liliblossoms

District 6 Female – Suzuki Nox/CragmiteBlaster  
District 6 Male – Rocky Morgan/Tyquavis

District 7 Female – Trixana Faust/Professor R.J. Lupin1  
District 7 Male – James Smith/TheProtectorOfHim

District 8 Female – Blu Vixen/Professor R.J. Lupin1  
District 8 Male – Gary Redwire/AlexFalTon

District 9 Female – Neveah Sunshine/CragmiteBlaster  
District 9 Male – Gray Golas/Tyquavis

District 10 Female – Bryndle Greer/luluthefox  
District 10 Male – Arien Whicker/Writer207

District 11 Female – Fawn Weed/Annabeth Pie  
District 11 Male – Edamame Stanton/2017tnt

District 12 Female – Heather Lotus/CandleFire45  
District 12 Male – Turner Willard/CragmiteBlaster


	7. District One Reapings

**Thanks to DarkDemon27 and DefoNotAFangirl for these two great characters!**

* * *

_Behold the king,_

_The king of kings._

_On your knees, dog,_

_Hahahahahaha._

_All hail._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

The holographic screen shimmers and warps. The colorful landscape of District 1 gradually comes into focus. The Justice Building is made of marble and extremely well-maintained, and virtually every child in the crowd looks healthy and strong. A swath of blond hair and blue eyes.

The escort approaches the girls' reaping ball and draws a single name. She returns to the microphone, and she's hardly uttered the first syllable when a short blonde girl steps out of the crowd. The other girls shrink back slightly at the sight of her piercing green eyes. She's a pretty one, no doubt about that.

"I'm Jade D'Amore," she says at the microphone. "I'm 18."

A muscular guy with copper skin steps forward as the male volunteer. He sets his eyes on the stage and marches forward with an almost flawless rhythm.

"Midas Sinthra," he says, plainly. "18."

Overall, Jade and Midas look like a strong, healthy pair. I can imagine either of them going far.

* * *

_All the other kids with their pumped up kicks,_

_You better run, better run, faster than my bullet._

_All the other kids with their pumped up kicks,_

_You better run, better run, outrun my gun._

* * *

**Midas Sinthra, 18 / Darkdemon27**

**District 1 Male**

"I have been dreaming of this day ever since you were born. Ever since I saw the fighter in your eyes."

I know how much my uncle loves me. He's never had a hard time showing affection. It's just that I wish he'd see me as something other than a fighter. As a normal guy, not a fighter, not a future victor.

"I've been dreaming too." The vague response gets me off the hook. From mentioning what I've actually been dreaming about all these years.

My cousin, Sheen, is the only person who actually seems worried about me. He smiles slightly as I look him over, but I can tell he's really nervous. When you live with the same four people for eighteen years, you learn a lot about the way their faces change depending on how they're feeling.

"Don't worry about me," I say, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'll see you again in a few weeks, I promise."

The reaping is at two o'clock in the afternoon today. I'm jogging to the academy for one last morning of training, and then my trainer is driving me to the reaping from there. So I probably won't see my family again until the goodbyes.

The thing I've always loved most about District 1 is the vegetation. Lush green grass. Neatly-trimmed hedges. We probably have the best plants in Panem. Even in the Capitol, the plants are laced with so many chemicals that they turn into a garish, lime green color. It's strange, and unnatural. Here, everything is pretty much as natural as you can get in Panem.

Yeah, living in District 1 is the closest you can get to being alive before the Great Disaster.

I have to sign a million papers to get into the academy, even though everyone there knows who I am. Now I have at least five hours to train. I quickly change into something light and then run over to the spears. My favorite weapons. There's already a target set up for me, and I nail the bull's eye with my first throw.

"Nice one."

I turn around and see my trainer standing there. A face scrunched up from years of careful analyzing. Dark hair.

"That was a really good one, Midas," he says. "But I still have a bone to pick with your follow-through. In the games, you probably won't have a lot of room. But you've got to show at least something. Not just this morning, but training too. Show the gamemakers what you're made of."

That's his longest critique. For the rest of the morning, he just sits there and watches me, nodding or humming to himself whenever I hit home.

When I stroll out of the front doors, I find that Burke and Opalescent are already waiting in the car. I apologize for taking so long and then duck into the back seat. The driver starts moving the second I'm buckled in.

"How do you feel?" Burke asks.

"Fine, I guess," I respond. "I feel prepared enough."

"You'll do great," he says, patting me on the back.

Opalescent smiles, making my stomach jump. "And I'll try to get a spot near the edge of the crowd this year. So I can trip any other boys that try to run to the stage."

"Thanks?" I say.

Opalescent just smiles wider. "We just want the best for you."

* * *

_The first time that I got it,_

_I was just ten years old._

_I got it from some kitty next door._

_I went to see the doctor and he gave me the cure,_

_I think I got it some more._

_They give me cat scratch fever._

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

I don't need an alarm clock. Samantha always gets up when the sun rises, and she wakes me up to play with her.

Samantha struts slowly into the room, yawning widely, then jumps onto the bed. Her black fur is tangled and mangy from a good night's sleep, and crumbs are stuck between her teeth from her morning snack.

The rest of the cats wake up in several waves over the course of the morning. But Samantha is always the first.

"Morning, girlie," I muse, running my fingers through her thick fur. "It's reaping day, you know. I won't see you after today for a few weeks."

She meows once in response.

I'm tempted to get out of bed and play with her, but the warm blankets and the feeling of her paws already stilling against mine tempts me even more. I set my head back on the warm pillow. The last thing I feel before I fall back asleep is Samantha flicking her tail across my chest.

"Jade Elizabeth D'Amore! What are you doing?"

I sit straight up so fast my back hurts. Samantha screeches and jumps off of the bed. I rub my eyes once and then look at the clock. The reaping starts in thirty minutes!

I bolt straight out of bed and sprint to the bathroom. I grab my toothbrush and jam it into my mouth. I'm small, only about five and a half feet tall. I have to stand on a stool to see myself well in the tall mirror.

The next ten minutes are chaos. The cats meow in unison as I burst into the living room, and all thirteen of them and Samantha look in my direction. I hurriedly toss a pile of treats into their midst and then put my shoes on.

Ugh. I'll have the worst bedhead today. Reaping day! There'll be so many cameras pointed in my direction.

"I thought you were getting ready!" Grandma shouts, fumbling with the clasp of her silver necklace. "I don't get it, you never sleep in."

She's not usually this mean. She's just acting like this because she's so frustrated. She loses hold of her emotions easily in stressful situations. But she's right. I can never sleep in. My mind is always too abuzz with ideas in the mornings.

We drive so quickly to the square that the peacekeepers pull Grandpa over. But I just show them my face and they let us go without another word.

"Wow, that was really cool," my cousin, Val, says. "You can get us anywhere. Like a queen."

I nod, sitting up straight. "That is _her majesty the queen_, young man. Consider yourself warned."

We all laugh, even Grandma, who looks so frustrated she could explode.

I like making people laugh. I always will.

"Guys, remember to take care of all the cats while I'm away. Especially Drew. His stomach is a bottomless pit. And Samantha, you have to let her out to pee really early in the morning. She never uses her litterbox. And Bella…"

"Slow down, Jade," Val says, breathing heavily in and out in mock exhaustion. "We'll take care of them all. Just get back as quickly as possible, okay? You know them all best."

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**


	8. District Two Reapings

**Thanks to MoneyPower435 and Writer207 for these awesome tributes!**

* * *

_Hey, ce la vie._

_Remember me? I made you, dressed,_

_And trained you._

_Hey, it's bitter sweet._

_You can't kill me with kindness,_

_I don't buy it._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

The dry, mountainous landscape of District 2 comes into focus. Here, the Justice Building is made of stone. The escort is a green-skinned lady with fiery red hair, and she wears a head band with cats.

The female volunteer is a pretty sixteen year-old with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. Her eyes are cold, yet aware in a strange way. Like she's nervous and trying not to show it.

"I'm Kennedy Coil. I'm 16," she says once she reaches the microphone.

The male volunteer is much taller and thinner, and his arms are bulging with muscle. His eyes and face aren't as harsh as we usually see in tributes from District 2. His features are calm and not brash.

The boy signs something with his hands, and a guy translates it as, "Gaius Alabaster. 18,"

This pair looks strong, but I can't see them as cold-blooded killers. They'll be interesting to pay attention to as the games progress.

* * *

_Help I'm alive,_

_My heart keeps beating like a hammer._

_Hard to be soft,_

_Tough to be tender._

* * *

**Gaius Alabaster, 18 / Writer207**

**District 2 Male**

Something bugs me about the other guys at the academy. I guess it's just that they complain about things they really don't have any right to complain about. Pumice complains about the weather and Orrin whines about the lack of new arrow targets while my doctor is telling me I probably won't speak a single word in my life.

Not that I don't like them, because they really are good friends. I figure it's just hard for me to relate, to anyone really. Being mute isn't always easy.

"Why do we train?" the trainer, Mr. Randall, shouts.

"For the Hunger Games!" the boys shout back. A chorus of gruff voices weak from an entire day of shouting.

"And why do we go into the games?" Mr. Randall's brow furrows with angst and passion.

"To serve the Capitol and honor our district!"

We've always been made out as heroes. Training our entire lives for the death match so that other little kids don't have to. So many things about the system seem wrong to me. They seem wrong morally, like the kind of feeling you get in your gut when something just isn't right. But I know better than to question things. Last time I spoke without being spoken to I was met with a slap in the face.

"…And this young man here embodies all of our morals. All of the things we hold dear." He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me onto the stage. "I have no doubt that Gaius Alabaster will fight well in the difficult weeks to come. We are truly honored to be in his presence at this time. Long live Panem!"

"Long live Panem!"

I'm free to go after that. District 2 is the only district where tributes are allowed to train on the day of the reaping. In Districts 1 and 4, only the volunteers themselves are allowed on the grounds. I have no idea why. I don't really care.

I'll be walking to the reaping today, along with Nero. My family is busy with work and his family is too drunk to care where he is at any given time. For me, I'm lucky to have at least one parent that cares. Mom is the most selfless, most caring person I know. Dad is an alcoholic. He beat me up when I was five. The doctor says he thinks that's why I'm mute.

It's not until the sky outside has grown to a light blue glow that one of the trainers pops up behind me, poking a wooden spear into my back.

"You're looking good. I would just work on keeping the eyes at the back of your head open."

"Right," I say, pursing my lips.

"Here. Practice with me." He grabs a sword from the bin behind me. It only takes me a few seconds to find his throat. "Nice." We start again, and this time he starts at me chest. I swerve to the side so the blow intended for my front hits me in the side. A few more seconds of swerving, and I have his neck against my blade.

"Yanno, kid. I'm not lying when I say there are very few kids I've seen with as much talent as you. I'm proud of you, dude."

"Thanks."

I meet up with Nero at the front doors once my day of training is over. I check my watch. The reaping is in two hours.

"When do you say we should leave?" I sign.

Nero purses his lips and shrugs. "We could stay here for a few more minutes. See if the rain lets up. We might not make it to the reaping in time, though."

We can't not make it to the reaping in time. Punishable by public whipping.

"I guess we should leave now," Nero says as we push open the doors. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess." I sign. "Just kinda nervous. Maybe it's the rain putting me in low spirits. Like, what if I mess up in my private session?"

"You won't."

"And what about the bloodbath?"

"You won't die." He pats me on the back. "Really, don't worry about it. You'll do great. Just don't do anything stupid and you'll be fine. Look before you leap. Think before you act."

"I'll try," I sign, and we step out into the rain together.

* * *

_Seems like only yesterday,_

_Life belonged to runaways._

_Nothing here to see,_

_No looking back._

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

I wake up with a headache on the morning of the reaping. I had one of those dreams again, where I wake up feeling like I've been doused in cold water. I literally have no idea where they come from. The only thing my doctor can suggest is anxiety.

Of course I'm feeling anxious. Today is the day that I'll be boarding the train to the Capitol.

My mind always buzzes with thoughts when I'm nervous. They say good things to me. And they say bad things to me.

_You'll never be good enough, _one says.

_Your hair is so oily, the Capitol wants to invade it, _another says.

_You'll do great. _That one little bug living in my brain is always positive. I'm thankful for him sometimes.

Again, nothing's wrong with me. I'm not a psycho who's hearing voices inside of my head. When my nerves are up, I just have a conversation with myself. Eh, maybe it is really weird. But whatever, it's not like anybody notices it unless I start talking back to my own thoughts. Which I don't.

The house is always empty on Saturday mornings, just because my adoptive parents head over to their friends' house to play bingo. I'm expecting some kind of note from them, with it being the day of the reaping and all. For a while I think they haven't left one. Then I see it pinned to the fridge.

_Kennedy,_

_Let me know if you decide to go the academy. I made breakfast for you. We should be home pretty early._

I already know I won't be going to the academy this morning. If I do, I'll get too riled up. Thinking about every single possibility and problem and scenario that could lead to my death. And then I'll be in low spirits when all of the cameras are actually pointing in my direction.

My parents both died when I was really little. I was really young then, but I remember them screaming at each other. Hitting each other, maybe. As for my adoptive parents, they're much more hardened. They're not ones who usually show affection, but I know they love me.

They've got to love me, or they wouldn't have kept me, right?

Right?

_That was a really good breakfast, _my thought says as I shove the last bite into my mouth.

_For sure._

The both of them come in through the front door only a few minutes later. They are strikingly similar, and so similar to me that they could be my actual parents. Brown eyes. Long, light-brown hair.

Just before we leave, I run back to my bedroom and snag the picture from underneath my pillow. The only real picture I own, a beautiful sunset. Something about it feels so unique that I can't help taking it with me to the reaping.

"Kennedy!" they both shout.

On a whim, I tear the picture in half. Which is weird, because it's my most prized possession. I take one half with me and leave the other half on my bed.

Soon, I will return and put the two pieces back together.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**


	9. District Three Reapings

**A/N: These tributes are both volunteers, for very different reasons. Hmm? A big thank you to DefoNotAFangirl and 2017tnt for these two :D**

* * *

_Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise,_

_Playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday._

_You got mud on your face, you big disgrace,_

_Kicking your can all over the place._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

There's no doubt that District 3 is one of the ugliest districts. Unsightly grey factories line the skyline, and the little horizon I can see is so crowded it looks like a blurry jumble, creating the faintest border between the land and the grey sky.

The escort reaches into the girls' bowl with her light pink glove and stirs through the names for at least ten seconds before she picks one.

She reads the name aloud, and a terrified-looking girl starts slowly trudging to the stage. She can't be any older than twelve or thirteen. Suddenly, the camera zooms in on a stocky, older girl in the middle of the crowd, at the look of terror on her face. She shouts, "I volunteer as tribute!" and then the young girl is free to go.

"I'm Monita Lidell," the volunteer girl says at the microphone. "I'm 16."

The escort reaps a boy tribute, and the wiry middle-aged kid is only about halfway through his trek to the stage when somebody shouts the words from within the crowd. A boy in an ugly orange prison uniform sprints to the stage.

"Bernie Tropello. 16," he says.

The escort is taken aback, to say the least, and so am I. Two volunteers from an outlying district? This is going to be interesting for sure.

* * *

_Hold tight wait 'til the party's over,_

_Hold tight we're in for nasty weather._

_There has got to be a way,_

_Burning down the house._

* * *

**Bernie Tropello, 16 / 2017tnt**

**District 3 Male**

I was five years old when I first discovered myself.

I woke to the smell of smoke and the sound of my father screaming at the top of his lungs. Screaming for me to run for my life. I'd never heard a human voice filled with such sheer terror, such panic, as he sounded then. It scared me shitless.

The two of us escaped the burning house moments before it caved in on itself, sending a towering plume of smoke into the already dark sky. I had forgotten my shoes inside, and now my feet were paying the price; blood squished between my toes as my father and I raced through the front yard, arm in arm.

When I turned back around for a quick glance at the roaring flames, I found myself unable to look away. Something about it fascinated me so much. I saw myself in every plume of ash and jet of flame. I heard myself in the sound of every shattering window.

My dad yelled something and tried to tug me away, but I didn't hear him.

I swear. I _could not_ look away from that fire. I could not.

That was the first hint that I was a pyromaniac.

I started setting fires four years later. I always tried to steer clear of areas that were actually populated, so that I didn't hurt anyone. For me, there's an indescribable rush of thrill and pleasure in setting things alight. A few minutes of that surreal feeling is easily worth a week in jail, hands down.

A year ago, I killed my first person. The building was seriously derelict. It looked like it hadn't been touched by human hands in centuries. There was literally moss growing around the front door. I whipped out my lighter and got to work.

Turned out, there was a family inside. A mother, a father, and three kids. They all died.

My execution is tomorrow. For now, I am being housed in the most secure area of the jail compound. The place is infested with spiders and snakes. It reeks of death and mold. The boy in the cell to my right, Thomas, kidnapped sixty girls ages three to ten before he was caught. The cell to the left houses Gordon. Dismembered his ex-girlfriend last year. With candles and creepy blood patterns and all the other bells and whistles.

"Bernie Tropello, please report to the front office to see your visitor."

A prison guard approaches and unchains me from the wall, then leads me upstairs, holding two different guns that are both pointed at my head. The upper level of the prison is the only place that's actually well-maintained. With a carpet and working lights and everything.

I have to wait in the visiting room for a painfully long time. Months. Years. Then the receiving microphone starts buzzing. I grab it.

"Hey Bernie. This you?" I instantly recognize my father's voice.

"Yes," I say.

"How's it been."

"As good as it can be. For a boy who's got less than fifty hours left to live."

"Don't talk like that."

"I will talk like that."

My father sighs. "If it comforts you, I'd like you to know we have everything arranged. All your money will go to your friends, like you wanted it to. And…" I kind of zone out after that.

I don't know why my dad frustrates me so much. Maybe it's because of how naïve, how calm he acts even in the worst times. No, I know why.

It's because he hasn't caught onto my plan. I have only one last chance—one last chance to escape death row. One last chance to regain a slight chance at survival.

A fire lights itself in my gut at the thought. I imagine the Capitol will be lovely.

* * *

_Drop everything now._

_Meet me in the pouring rain,_

_Kiss me on the sidewalk,_

_Take away the pain._

'_Cause I see sparks fly,_

_Whenever you smile._

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

It's still dark when I wake up. I pull aside the covers and sit straight up, peering at the dilapidated alarm clock. It is six in the morning, on the dot. It's a chilling thought, but the games will begin exactly one week from now.

The reason I wake up so early is so that I can meet with my friends. To fit in one last day of training before the reaping. None of the four of us ever plan on volunteering. We just train as a precaution, and, in a way, as a leisure activity. Exercise is fun, especially when you have buddies.

I down a little bit of cheese and a glass of stale sink water and lightly push open the door.

"What took you so long?"

Even though I recognize Genesis' voice, she still makes me jump ten feet into the air. My yarn hat flies off of my head and hits the top of the doorframe.

"I swear, you can be terrifying sometimes," I say.

"I know," Genesis says, rubbing her hands together like she is getting mischievous. "The element of surprise is paramount."

"Any idea where Ness and Cideo are?" I ask as we start walking. "I haven't seen them at school this week."

"Ness broke his arm. And Cideo…"

"What? He broke his arm?"

Genesis purses her lips. "Yep. Dunno how he did it, but I took him to a healer. It was so gross. There was blood and bone and everything."

"Is he okay?"

She relaxes her shoulders. "Yep. They say he should be free to go in a few days. He'll have to wear a cast for a few months, though. Even the sight of those things makes me cringe, I can't imagine how torturous that must feel."

Genesis is always moving, always bright and cheery. I can imagine how wearing a cast would be hell for her.

Cideo's small house looms out of the darkness, and I knock three times on the door. Cideo's sister, Margot, answers the door. She calls Cideo down, and he rushes out of his bedroom, hair disheveled.

"He just woke up," Margot explains, rolling her eyes.

Genesis and I hang out in the living room throughout the time it takes Cideo to get ready for the day. Which is too long, by the way.

Our training isn't intense. Throwing spears at targets and racing obstacle courses and the like. The four of us have been training together for years. Genesis, Ness, Cideo, and I are all tall and muscular. We could be siblings. Eh, maybe not Cideo. He's too short to be confused as my relative.

The fog is particularly heavy this morning, obscuring the already dark morning. We end up resorting to flashlights to light our training area. Which is a big risk, because if a peacekeeper spots us we're pretty much fucked.

Whatever. I like taking risks.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**


	10. District Four Reapings

**A/N: There's been a bit of confusion about the reason Monita volunteered last chapter. Don't worry, everything will make sense in due time. It's all part of my master plan. Also, Vista mentions a book in this chapter. Can anyone guess what book it is? First person to guess correctly gets a shout out in the next chapter. And as always, thanks to CragmiteBlaster and 2017tnt for this duo :D**

**P.S. This is the longest reaping chapter yet!**

* * *

_I know I got to be right now,_

'_Cause I can't get much wronger._

_Man I've been waiting all night now,_

_That's how long I been on ya._

_I need you right now._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

I can practically smell seafood and salty sea spray as the landscape of District 4 comes into view. The Justice Building is very expansive and open, surrounded by rows and rows of wooden houses on stilts. The residents of the district are relatively healthy and well-fed, a refreshing sight after the poor, tired citizens of District 3.

The female volunteer is a girl with hair and eyes that are exactly the same color. Metal braces line her teeth. It's hard to tell from the clip, but she seems pretty average in the ways of height and weight.

"I'm Vista Juarez. I'm 18," she says, in a very heavy Hispanic accent.

The escort calls a male name, and a fifteen-year-old boy trudges toward the stage, crying. Suddenly, a strong-looking older boy, who I assume is the selected volunteer, steps out of the crowd. Before he can shout the words, a boy at the other end of the square screams, "I volunteer as tribute!" A tiny boy with eyes that are filled with both fury and depression at the same time steps out of the crowd.

"I'm Dock Breckminn. I'm 12," he says.

Well, this needs more than a little explaining.

* * *

_Sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young,_

_How come I'm never able to identify where it's coming from._

_I'd make a candle out of it if I ever found it,_

_Try to sell it, never sell out of it, I'd probably only sell one._

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

I hate my parents.

Yes, yes, they gave me life and I should be eternally grateful. But I'm not one of those teenagers who gets so caught up their angst that they blame their parents for everything. Both my mother and my father are sick, twisted people who have done some seriously terrible things I don't think I can ever forgive them.

I have to keep moving forward, and I know that. I just have to keep swimming. But sometimes when I peer out of my window and watch the kids I'm not allowed to hang out with, sometimes when all I have for lunch is one slice of bread because they don't want me gaining weight, that can get hard.

It can get _really_ hard.

"Go! Go! Go! Faster!" my father roars.

My heart hammers in my chest so hard I'm pretty sure it's going to come out of my throat. My entire body feels like it's engulfed in flames, and my muscles ache and pound with exhaustion.

I collapse in a heap about a hundred feet from the end of the track, falling onto my knees and then my elbows. By the time he can blow his whistle, I've emptied my stomach of my entire meager breakfast. I'm twelve. I should be dancing and flirting and complaining about having to go to school, not training for the Hunger Games.

"That was pathetic, kid," my father groans. "Boys who go into the Hunger Games keep running no matter what. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT! REPEAT AFTER ME!"

"No… no… matter…"

I throw up some more. And some more.

"I don't think you understand," he seethes. "That I just gave you an order! Now get back up! Keep running!"

I have to stumble slowly across the rest of the track. The only reason he's so sour is because he was a career who didn't end up going into the games. One of the other boys put laxatives in everybody's drinks. Same thing for my mother. I'm pretty sure they met each other during the competition process for the two volunteer spots.

It's another hour of running and climbing and doing wall sits with medicine balls before my father finally lets me go. It's a beautiful summer morning. The grass is profusely green and the azure blue sky is dotted with puffy white clouds. But it's really hard to take everything in.

The pressure of everything is just weighing me down. I don't know how to escape. I'm trapped, somehow. Like there's a huge pile of bricks on my back, and I'm screaming for help, screaming for someone to take the weight off of me, but everybody is just walking past me, ignoring me.

I would normally spend a free afternoon dancing, but I'm too exhausted to do any moving after the hard day of training. So I pop out my flute and run through all of the fishing songs. Nobody really knows who composed them. Supposedly it was President Snow, but everyone knows that seems like a whole load of propaganda.

The first fishing song has lots of long, low tones. The second one is high and full of trills. And the third is definitely the hardest. It involves so many rapid note changes and sudden stops that it takes most people years to learn. I have all three of them memorized. Each one lasts around thirty minutes and has its own lyrics. At least one of them is performed at pretty much every school choir concert.

The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. When I get bored of running through the fishing songs, I go up to my room and lie down on my bed. I've only been snoozing for about fifteen minutes when soft footsteps wake me up.

At first I think it's my mother or father come to scold me for being so lazy. Then I see the flick of The Party's black tail and I smile.

"Hey, girlie," I muse, running my fingers through her black hair. A stray. We've been friends for years. She's my only friend, really. Because you'd better believe my parents would freak if they heard I was talking to anybody my age. Friendships will distract me from my training, they say.

I give The Party a few strips of fish from the ice box, and she meows once before leaving through the window. She returns about two minutes later and leaves a dead mouse on the windowsill. That's probably the last I'll see of her today. She almost never pays me more than two visits in one day.

My eyes slowly close, and as I fall asleep, I decide once and for all that this is no life to live. Hey, maybe being dead is even better than putting up with this hell for one more day.

I relax against the scratchy burlap pillow, savoring the cool summer air and the short grace note of silence.

* * *

_Rule number one, is that you gotta have fun,_

_But baby when you're done, you gotta be the first to run._

_Rule number two, just don't get attached to,_

_Somebody you could lose._

* * *

**Vista Juarez, 18 / 2017tnt**

**District 4 Female**

Papa insists that we eat white fish, rice, and eggs on the morning of the reaping. Every year. To tell the truth, I don't actually hate it. It's made with love and care, and that's what counts. Eh, that's not true. I do hate it, haha.

"Something wrong, _muchacha_?" Papa asks. "You're not eating. You need your energy. Today's the big day."

I pick a fried egg off of my plate and move it slowly to my mouth. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from wrinkling my face at the taste.

"Just nerves, I guess," I say. "I swear I won't let you down, though. No worries."

Mama smiles. "We don't have any. The both of us are so proud of you. You know that, right?"

I nod and take a bite of my rice. I love both of my parents, and I know they love me back; it isn't like they've ever been apprehensive to show their affection. But I kinda wish they would drop things more often. It feels terrible to even think about, but I think they're a little too emphatic sometimes.

Hehe, I just used a big word.

"I have some good news for you, _senorita_," Mama says.

"Tell me."

"The dentist says you should have your braces off soon. If we're quick, we might be able to rush to his office and get them off before the reaping."

Something drops in my stomach. At first I hated my braces, but they've become a part of my identity almost. They make me feel unique. Adventurous, almost. I have no idea why.

"I want to take them to the arena," I say. I figure more uniqueness can't hurt, especially for an academy graduate who's more-or-less followed the exact stereotypical career tribute formula for my entire young life.

Mama raises her eyebrows. "I thought you were looking forward to getting those off."

I manage to escape the dinner table a few minutes later, and I retreat to my room to change into my reaping clothes. I pull out the ocean-blue dress my older brother Muelle made me. He's never trained for the games. Neither have either of my parents. They just saw me taking interest at a young age and decided why not.

"My, what a beautiful dress for a beautiful girl," Papa says when I re-enter the kitchen. "You'll do great today, I know it."

Compliments always make me warm inside. I like feeling unique. I like feeling special. Even when I get teased for it.

_Do not be angry. The opinions of others cannot damage you. _I read that in a book when I was a kid. A book about a brave girl who's proud of herself and doesn't care what other people think of her. It's been hanging on a wood sign over my bedroom door ever since.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**


	11. District Five Reapings

**A/N: Thanks to LiveFreeOrDie and liliblossoms for this pair. The book I mentioned last chapter was Divergent. The quote is part of the Amity faction manifesto. And P.S. is anyone else reminded of a certain glader and a certain magizoologist by this male tribute's name?**

* * *

_And all the kids cried out,_

"_Please stop, you're scaring me."_

_I can't help this awful energy,_

_Goddamn right, you should be scared of me._

_Who is in control?_

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

The faces of District 5's residents are slick with both sweat and rainwater. A light drizzle is falling, and water vapor rises from the surface of the cement Justice Building. Tall mountains dominate the horizon. The Capitol is hidden in those mountains, thousands of miles north. Nothing else is naturally recognizable. Just flat land and grey slum houses.

The escort draws a female name, and exclaims. "Lucia Volta."

A dirty girl with torn clothes raises her hand and shouts, "I volunteer as tribute." She races to the stage. "I'm Gwyneth Lenaisse," she says, when prompted by the escort.

"And why did you volunteer, Gwyneth?" the escort asks.

"To set things right."

The choosing of the male tribute is much less eventful. An extremely well-dressed, black-haired boy named Newton Zhang is called to the spotlight. I recognize the Zhang name. I'm pretty sure Newton's father is a big business owner in District 5.

Both of these tributes look strong enough; I wouldn't count them out.

* * *

_But you gotta keep your head up, oh oh,_

_And you can let your hair down, eh eh._

_You gotta keep your head up, oh, oh,_

_And you can let your hair down, eh eh._

* * *

**Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18 / LiveFreeOrDie**

**District 5 Female**

When the dreams come for me, they're never alone. They're always accompanied by the guilt. The shame. The nagging feeling that things just aren't right.

I don't remember my parents as much as I remember what happened to them. They were part of a rebel group called the Network. An underground society. They risked their lives every day to create cracks and fractures at the base of the marble tower that was the Capitol. My mother and father were never at the front lines of the riots, however. They fought with brains rather than brawn. Spreading information wherever they were needed.

Then they were discovered. The hydroelectric dam where they worked "mysteriously" collapsed, killing them both and the two dozen odd other Network members there. I was five then. A family friend somehow managed to escape with me. She gave me my name, Gwyneth: "white". The color of electricity.

Before long, I took up work at the same dam, in the part that hadn't been destroyed. A few other workers, who dabbled in rebellion, let me in on the identity of the man who had revealed the location of the Network. I'd seen him around. At the local coffee shop. At the Thieving Magpie. I'd even talked to him multiple times.

I knew I had to set things right.

When I spotted him at the Thieving Magpie, I walked slowly into the pub and ordered one of the blue drinks they were known for. It was beyond obvious that man wasn't one to resist the advances of a pretty girl like myself. I escorted him home in the freezing rain.

I _accommodated _him. And then, when he fell asleep, I poisoned him to death. It wasn't much, really. I was expecting him to choke and flail his limbs and try to attack me. But he just got more and more slow over the course of the next hour until he stopped moving. This was not payback, my arrogant self thought. This was justice.

That was the biggest mistake of my life, and the most selfish thing I have ever done. He had a daughter, I later found out. She was sent to the orphanage and abused terribly. Her name was Lucia. Lacking knowledge and skills, she was immediately thrown out and sent to live on the streets. Because of me. Because I killed her father.

The morning of the reaping is cold and foggy, and I wake up shivering. My mouth tastes like day-old bread. I wiggle out of my dilapidated sleeping bag and peer around. District 5 always looks ugliest on the morning of the reaping, and that's really saying something because it's always ugly. Not even the lakes and rivers are aesthetically pleasing; they're so polluted you can't see a foot down from the surface.

I'm living on the streets too. The fact that both of my parents were in the Network pretty much rules out most employment opportunities.

Breakfast never means much for me. I hurriedly scamper over to the nearest baker and raid half a loaf of burnt bread from the trash can out back.

Then I grab a snake and strangle it to death. They're surprisingly nutritious, if you can get past the taste.

Then it's time for a sip of water. More like a sip of mud, really.

With my glamorous breakfast out of the way, I can pack up my meager possessions and get on the move. If I'm fast, I can cover two or three miles in the next hour. At first I'm concerned about being spotted and turned in, but then I remember it's June 23rd.

If there's one good thing about the morning of the reaping, it's that the streets are empty. I can move around more and make more noise than I usually can without being noticed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

* * *

_Pretty hurts,_

_Shine the light on whatever's worse._

_Perfection is the disease of a nation,_

_Pretty hurts._

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

I must be perfect.

Those words have been drilled into my hands so hard that I feel like they've fused with my identity. And it seems messed up, but I don't think it's a bad thing. I don't think it's a bad thing to want to make my mother and father proud. And I don't think it's a bad thing that they want a "perfect" son either.

They just have their own ideas about the way a boy should be, and I have mine. But I'm more than happy to put on a mask and be the teenager they want me to be, not the one I actually am.

"Today's a big day," my father says, fastening his tie.

"How is the reaping a good thing?" I ask.

He frowns. "I didn't say it was good. Today, you're representing your mother and I, and, by extension, the family business. Keep your cool, but have pride. Dignity."

High expectations seem to pile onto more high expectations. Family business, yeah. Act in a dignified manner, yeah. But I often find myself longing for a time when I don't have to wear tuxedos to dinner—a time when I can actually be myself.

"Your father's right," my mom says, her pearl necklace dazzling. "I want to be proud to be your mother."

"Thanks, guys," I murmur, and then walk to my room to change.

I slip a red t-shirt under my reaping clothes. It's the little pieces of self-expression that make me feel like a normal teenager.

While I change, I find myself wondering if this is how I'm going to live forever. Every day the same as the day before and the day after. Going to fencing practice and then violin lessons and then playing sports. Maybe, maybe not. I guess I'll just have to go where the wind carries me, no matter how much it hurts.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**


	12. District Six Reapings

**A/N: Even though we don't hear a lot about it in the three novels, I've always imagine District 6 as one of the worst places to live. Drug abuse, overpopulation, bleh. And also, the reapings are now halfway over! Thanks to CragmiteBlaster and Tyquavis for this pair :D**

* * *

_I don't get angry, I get even,_

_Tell ya' boy he best be believing._

_All the stars in the sky,_

_Someone will pay for the way you lied._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

District 6 is the first district where "tribute" is pretty much synonymous with "corpse". The streets are extremely filthy, dark, and ill-maintained. Factories spew smoke on the horizon, obscuring the enormous lake in the far distance, one of Panem's five largest. Only a small amount of sunlight manages to filter through the smoggy skies, and even that is faint and unfriendly.

The escort zips to the girls' reaping ball and draws a name. "Suzuki Nox!"

A miniscule, black-haired girl with torn clothes literally collapses. Two peacekeepers descend like birds of prey, grabbing her by either side of her abdomen and carrying her to the stage.

A male name is drawn. "Rocky Morgan!"

A muscular, older boy lets out a gasp. The other boys immediately step away from him, as though his misfortune is a disease they might catch. They clear a path for him as he stumbles to the stage, looking dazed.

I definitely can't imagine Suzuki wearing the victor's crown. Rocky looks slightly more promising, but only time will tell, as always.

* * *

_Walls of insincerity,_

_Shifting eyes and vacancy,_

_Vanished when I saw your face._

_All I can say is it was_

_Enchanting to meet you._

* * *

**Suzuki Nox, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 6 Female**

Sometimes it seems like I'm the only person who sees beauty the way I do. Like when the other girls in the care home scream and scatter when they see a big spider. If they just let one crawl on their arm, I'm sure they'd feel differently.

"I'm sorry you're so misunderstood," I murmur, setting my hand on the ground next to the spider. She experimentally places a single hairy leg on my palm and moves it in a few circles. One by one, the other legs join. Then I pass her to my other hand.

The both of us are misunderstood. I can't remember the last time anybody besides Peugeot called me by my real name. It's always "missy" or "hey you" when it comes from the adults running the place. And the girls ourselves don't talk amongst ourselves much. Because one wrong thing has to come out of our mouths before we're on the streets.

I slip my hand out of the barred window and slowly tip her off. She falls to the stone with a soft noise, her eight black legs landing in a jumble.

I shiver as I head down the cafeteria with the cohort of other girls. This place is always cold. The stone is always damp from condensation and lack of maintenance. There are about five windows in the entire place. It looks like a prison.

"You've not got a brain, I see? Why let every person walking past see what you're doing?" was the response I got the last time I built up the painstaking courage to ask one of the workers. Nobody here seems to understand that the main purpose of windows is for looking out rather than looking in.

We sleep in crowded bedrooms at the dead end of a single long hallway. I haven't seen a boy in almost a year: the boys and girls are kept strictly separate.

"Hey, you."

Like an idiot, I stop. I turn my head slowly around and suddenly I feel a clammy hand wrap around the back of my neck. Margela. I'd recognize her grip anywhere.

She only has to hit me lightly in the chest before I'm sent toppling to the ground, gasping. The other girls instantly clear away, and I can't blame them. Getting involved with the big bully is the last thing anyone needs to make reaping morning any worse.

"Help!" I scream as the first of her fists descends on me. "Help! Help!" I repeat the word over and over. Not because I expect someone to actually help, but because that's just what you do when your life is flashing before your eyes and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Girls! Girls! What's going on?" For once in my life, I'm glad to see Ms. Williams' bony face.

Margela suddenly bends forward, feigning extreme pain. "That Suzuki girl just punched me, ma'am, for no reason!"

My entire body freezes up and I can already feel the cold cement floor of the punishment room. Ms. Williams approaches like a spider approaching a fly and I can't move, I can't breathe. I can't do anything. Suddenly…

"It wasn't her."

The entire crowd clears. Suddenly Peugeot is standing there and there are words streaming out her mouth. Words that defend me. Garnished with the politest trash-talking of Margela I have ever heard.

"Shut up. Margela would never lie," Ms. Williams grunts.

Silence envelops the crowd. I try to stare daggers at her the way the other girls do to get what they want, but I can't. I can't look at someone that way. Not even someone as terrible as Ms. Williams. But Peugeot must be doing something right, because it only takes the old lady thirty seconds to speak again.

"Get out of my sight." The frozen crowd swells back into action.

I jump to my feet and scurry in Peugeot's direction. Her blonde hair is loose down her back. She looks beautiful.

"Thanks… for that," I murmur, somewhat timidly.

"No problem." She smiles with one corner of her mouth, making my heart leap.

"So… time for dinner then?"

"Breakfast."

"Yeah, that. Let's go then."

I scurry away before Ms. Williams can see me falling behind and before she can see me blushing.

* * *

_Look. If you had one shot_

_Or one opportunity_

_To seize everything you ever wanted,_

_In one moment,_

_Would you capture it?_

_Or just let it slip?_

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

It's depressing, really. Seeing how much District 6 has fallen. Many years ago, before the dark days, we were a prosperous district of manufacturing and trade, the fifth richest behind the career districts and District 3. Now only Districts 10 and 12 have worse living conditions. Our streets are hotspots of violence, rape, and drug abuse.

I stick close to the side of the rundown street as I walk. That way I can quickly run to somebody's door if something happens. In this part of 6, or anywhere in 6 really, it's never a good idea to be outside at night.

My flashlight beam takes the form of a faint circle on the cement. I covered the end with a thin piece of cloth to make the light less intense, so I'm not spotted.

This entire operation is risky. I could be thrown in jail or worse if the peacekeepers catch me. Even the thought of them makes my heart race. Peacekeepers have terrified me ever since the… incident, three years ago.

Anyway. My family is waiting for me. I have to get dinner to them as quickly as I can.

Then a small noise makes me jump. I hurriedly cover the flashlight beam with my hand and withdraw into the shadows, trying to locate the source of the commotion. I catch a flash of white as a body goes flying up against one of the decrepit brick walls. I slowly creep forward for a better look.

At the end of the alley, there is a group of guys shuffling around, throwing punches and cursing loudly. The majority of them form a loose circle around a single fighter wearing plain work clothes.

Before I have time to question it furthers, the boys launch themselves forward with a battle-like cry that reverberates around.

I take a step forward, then back. I have no idea what I should do.

Then I snap and I realize I can't let this slip. I'm normally easygoing but I can't stand when people are taken advantage of.

"Hey!" I shout.

The tallest guy turns around and wrinkles his eyes in confusion. I can't tell much about him other than his height given the inky darkness and the lack of a moon. But I make out a curtain of curly hair. Then I realize he's stalking in my direction and I falter for a moment, staggering backward and losing my balance.

Just as I catch myself, the original victim makes a run for it. The other villainous boys shuffle after him, and I make the split-second decision to tear the stolen bread out of my bag and throw it into the center of the alley.

I'm banking on the fact they're beating him up for food and not just to beat him up.

The boys turn away from their victim, staring greedily at the bread. Even the tall boy with messy hair turns his head away from me. Then I rush toward safety, and the victim follows me.

"Thanks," he murmurs. I recognize that voice.

"Julius," I whisper. "Why are you out so late?"

"Same… reason… as you," he stammers, speaking between heavy footsteps. "Food."

"But…"

"Not now," he says. "More running. Less talking."

I get to my house in a matter of minutes and slam the front door. Mom and Dad and Ke stand expectantly in front of me, crowded around the door. Their sunken faces drop even farther when they see I'm not holding any food.

"It was Julius. I saw him getting ganged up on. Well, I didn't know it was him, but, but…"

"Shhh," Mom whispers, her disappointment thinly veiled by a fake smile. "Explain later. We're just glad you're safe. Wash up and then you can tell us everything."

My stomach is grumbling already. I can tell sleeping won't be easy tonight.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**


	13. District Seven Reapings

**A/N: This chapter features yet ANOTHER volunteer, like wow, this is a pretty volunteer-centric games! I'm not complaining, though. Volunteers often have the most interesting storylines :D And thanks to TheProtectorOrHim and Professor R.J. Lupin1 for this pair!**

* * *

_You built me up with your wishing hell,_

_I didn't have to sell you._

_You threw all your money in the pissing well,_

_You do just what they tell you._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

It's a heavily forested landscape that I see when District 7 comes into sight. The tall mountain range containing the Capitol looms on the horizon, and the peaks are capped with snow. The sky is spotlessly blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. The camera shows an aerial shot of the district, and it shows only a single structure churning smoke about half a mile away. The cameras stop at the border with District 1 before returning to the Justice Building, where the crowds wait anxiously for two of their children to be reaped.

The escort draws a female name. Suddenly, the cameras zoom in on a willowy girl in the crowd. She steps forward, then backward. She opens her lips, then closes them immediately. She's clearly indecisive. Her cry of "I volunteer as tribute" is weak, but it's more than enough for the escort, who claps her hands together and jumps for joy.

"I'm Trixana Faust," she says at the microphone. "I'm 17."

I can see instant regret in her eyes.

The drawing of the male is much more straightforward. The escort calls out "James Smith" and a fairly healthy older boy hesitantly steps out of the crowd.

Both of these tributes look at least somewhat promising. District 7 definitely has a chance this year, however tiny it may be.

* * *

_For what I've done._

_I start again._

_And whatever pain may come,_

_Today this ends._

_I'm forgiving._

* * *

**James Smith, 17 / TheProtectorOfHim**

**District 7 Male**

I love the way the sunlight filters through the stained glass windows. The thousand different colored beams collect on the stage and blend together into a pale blue hue that illuminates the podium and the nearby piano. I've always wanted to play that thing, but Mom is firm about her rules. The piano is only to be played during services by a trained priest. Which I am not.

"There is no fear in love," the priest calls, his eyes panning slowly over the heavy Bible in front of him like he's done this ten million times before, which he has. "Because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love."

"Love," he says, looking up from the thick book and panning over the crowd. "One of the many ways in which we experience the grace of God every day. Without love and without God, our lives lack meaning. The love that binds a man and a woman together is one of the greatest gifts with which we have all been blessed."

_A man and a woman. _I've heard that before. A lot. Especially from my Mom whenever she catches me staring at boys.

It's not like I don't believe in God, because I'm pretty dang sure there's a higher power somewhere out there. But what kind of all-loving being would allow the Hunger Games to happen? What god would condemn a boy to hell just because of who he loves?

The ceremony drones on for quite a long while. Once, when I start to nod off, my mother shakes me awake. My father places a hand on her knee, and she calms down slightly.

"…And that's the takeaway from today, and from every day. To love. Peace be with you all. Amen."

A chorus of Amen-s rises from the crowd, and then we're free to go.

At least,_ they're_ free to go. My entire family and I have to stay behind and take care of the church. It's not like I'm complaining about this, because it's just about the only thing that puts bread on our table. Besides, if this wasn't our job, we would have to be lumberjacks full-time. Much more physically strenuous work than this.

Polishing the wooden seating is my first order of business. One of the assistants points me to a closet, and I pull out the polishing cloths. Then I spray them with a bit of chemical from a spray bottle and get to work.

I've never actually done this before, but I find it pretty easy. The only hard part is scrunching up the cloth into the tight corners, and even that's not much of a hassle.

The hours drone past, and it's a million years before we're finally free to leave. My mother calls my father from the next room, and we stroll out of the front doors together. Arm in arm. The "perfect" family in the eyes of God, as I can imagine.

"You're a trouper, son," my father says. "We're both proud of you."

I just nod once. I know they're trying to comfort me because the reaping is tomorrow. The reaping doesn't terrify me much, though. There's such a tiny chance of getting picked.

The church would say differently. They'd say the reaping is a punishment from God. The most sinful boy and girl from the district are sent to hell each year.

We normally converse on our way home from the church, but I'm too tired and too downtrodden to do anything. My mother asks me about it once, and she understands when I say I'm just exhausted.

"You've had a busy day," she says, placing an understanding hand on my shoulder. "Take a long nap for me. Pray a little. Get your strength back."

I am tired. But that's not just confined to my physical body. I feel like I've been holding so many things back from them, so many things they'd throw a Bible at me if they found out about. Maybe my spirit is a little tired. I don't know if that's actually a thing that happens.

Really, I don't know a whole lot. But I know everything will work out in the end. Somehow.

* * *

_Birds flying high,_

_You know how I feel._

_Sun in the sky,_

_You know how I feel._

_Reeds driftin' on by,_

_You know how I feel._

* * *

**Trixana Faust, 17 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 7 Female**

Sometimes I think I have an unhealthy obsession with my father. That sounded weird. I'm constantly thirsting for his attention. His acknowledgement, approval, validation? I can't think of the right word.

When I wake up, only a small part of the sun is past the horizon. Out of my window, I can only barely make out the familiar forest landscape. We are lumberjacks. If my father hadn't abandoned Soren and I at birth, we could be living on his enormous estate with horses and caviar and everything.

"You and Soren are what the rich call 'illegitimate'," was the way my mother explained this to my seven year old self. "When a rich man has kids with someone who isn't his wife, sometimes he abandons them. He doesn't see them as his real children."

"That's mean. It's not fair," my little voice warbled.

My mother sighed. "Of course it's not fair. A lot of things aren't fair. But I have you and Soren. My little gifts from heaven. I'm thankful for that."

I'm thankful too. I have a great mom, and she's the most caring person I can imagine. And Soren is a pretty great brother. In case you're wondering.

The sunrise is beautiful. The small piece of sun casts bands of pink and orange across the horizon. Like a Monet painting or something.

Honestly, I don't think that deep. I just smile slightly as I slip out of bed, landing in my shoes.

I find myself shaking as I put my hair up into a bow. I've only met my father a few times, and even then he turned his back to me. I know there's some way I could get his attention. There's got to be.

I always felt an intense jealously when I saw the other girls walking alongside any kind of father figure. And over the years, that jealously, that anger, has slowly crushed me like a can under a strong hand.

Sometimes I love my father for bringing me into the world at all.

Sometimes I hate him for abandoning Soren and I at birth. Sometimes I don't know what to think.

I sprint out of my room and see that my mother already has breakfast made. Muffins. The last time I had one of these was four years ago on Capitolmas. I literally believed in Santa until it was thirteen because I got fancy muffins every year and the only logical explanation was Santa Claus. The memories instantly make me feel guilty for what I'm planning to do.

Tearing myself away from my mother would destroy her, I know that. Even if she will still have Soren.

I might come back. I might never come back.

Am I selfless enough to suck up my feelings for my father and just live my life how the government has laid it out for me? Am I selfish enough to step forward tomorrow afternoon?

Maybe the huge risk is worth it if it means my father will finally notice me.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith, 17**


	14. District Eight Reapings

**A/N: Here we have District 8, one my personal favorite districts. Probably the second most fun to create names for, after District 1. Thanks to AlexFalTon and Professor R.J. Lupin1 for these two tributes!**

* * *

_Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?_

_Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?_

_Out of the doorway the bullets rip,_

_To the sound of the beat._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

District 8 is even uglier than District 6. The Justice Building and the entire square is surprisingly well-maintained. Beyond that, the district is a swath of dark alleys, factories, clouds of smoke, fallen power lines, and rats. Barely a blade of grass in sight.

"Blu Vixen!" the escort shouts. The cameras show a sixteen-year-old in the crowd clap a hand over her mouth. The other girls back away as she slowly falls to her knees, crying and screaming soundlessly. It takes her several minutes to stumble to the stage.

A male tribute is picked. "Gary Redwire!"

A younger boy darts out of the crowd, a strange glint in his eye. When he reaches the stage, he turns around and starts reciting a poem to the audience. Blu and the escort wrinkle their faces in confusion. Gary seems completely oblivious to everything going on around him. Of course, it's only a matter of time before the truth sets in.

* * *

_It's Friday, Friday,_

_Gotta get down on Friday._

_Everybody's looking forward to_

_The weekend._

* * *

**Gary Redwire, 13 / AlexFalTon**

**District 8 Female**

"Well, what exactly is it?" I ask, giving the container of pills a shake.

"I already told you, it's stuff to make you feel good." Leo shrugs.

"But what is it made of? I don't want anything that's going to mess me up a lot."

Threader and Leo both shrug. "I've been taking them every year on reaping day," Threader says. "It's sort of like a tradition."

"I just don't want my mom to get pissed off," I say. "Because you know what happens when my mom gets pissed off."

"I am never going to forget," Leo sighs out. "Anyway. Deal or no deal?"

If Emmaline was here, she would be screaming for me not to do drugs, that this is a terrible idea, that I should just run home and sew a pair of socks until I calm down. But Emmaline isn't here.

I don't know if it's my sense of adventure or the sheer desperation to calm my nerves. I pop off the lid and pull two of the tablets out.

Threader and Leo have been my friends since kindergarten. They couldn't be more different. Threader is daring and pretty particular too. Leo is much more laid back and unconventional. I feel like a mix of them both. We're a pretty great team, if you ask me.

I don't take the pills.

"If you're so scared, I'll do it first," Threader says. Without another word, he pulls a pill out of the jar and pops it into his mouth. He swishes it around for a few seconds and then swallows hard. Then it's gone.

"I am not scared," I say, and I pop both of the pills into my mouth.

"You were only supposed to take one," Leo says.

"Well, why didn't you tell me that earlier?"

"I thought you already knew."

I hope it won't be a big problem. I feel fine. But if and when my mom finds out, she'll be madder than when she found out my dad was cheating. And that's _really_ saying something.

"Anyway, we should leave," Threader says. "The peacekeepers are going to make their rounds to hunt down the people who decided not to go to the reaping."

I nod, and sprint away, hoping the overdose won't take a toll on my senses.

I am standing in line to get my finger pricked. Then the scene suddenly changes and I'm sitting in my desk in English class. It's poetry day. We're presenting our poems.

When I get to the front of the classroom, I hand the teacher my paper. He sticks the needle into my finger and then tells me to return to my desk. I take a spot in the crowd, rehearsing my lines.

The escort picks a female tribute, and a girl who I'm pretty sure is three or four grades older than me walks to the stage. I've never seen her in class before.

Then… "Gary Redwire!"

I step forward at the sound of my name. I can feel my classmates' eyes on the back of my neck as I walk to the front of the classroom.

"I hope you enjoy my poem," I say, turning around the face the crowd. "My poem is called 'Starlight'."

My classmates glare back at me, looking confused. The girl standing next to me, who's still at the front of the class for some reason, wrinkles her face in confusion.

"Anyway, here's how it goes… I look at the stars at night, and I see a thousand different words. Worlds, I mean. Worlds. And… I kinda forgot the rest."

The classroom stays dead quiet.

"That was a lovely poem, dear," the funny dressed lady I don't recognize anymore tells me. "Now shake hands, the both of you."

"Wait, you're in my class?" I ask the girl when our fingers lock.

"No. I don't know what you're talking about."

"This is poetry, third period. Are you new here?" I ask.

All I get is another weird look. From her and from everybody else in the classroom. I hope I can still get a good grade.

* * *

_When the tears come streaming down your face,_

'_Cause you lose something you can't replace._

_When you love someone but it goes to waste,_

_What could be worse?_

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

I never know what to say when somebody incites a conversation with me. It feels like there's a huge weight in my mouth whenever I try to open it and reply. My doctor says it stems from a traumatic past and from low self-esteem issues. Which I definitely have. But sometimes I wish I could talk to people as easily as the other girls can. Sometimes I wish I had a friend.

Which is why I jump ten feet into the air when somebody says, "I like your dress."

I turn around. A girl stands there, about my age but much shorter. If she wasn't so short, I would describe her as willowy. I recognize her face, and I remember seeing her around school from time to time. I've never actually talked to her, of course.

I try to say something, but all that comes out is a small sound. My stomach crumples up with anxiety.

"I said I like your dress," she repeats. Then she must see the look on my face, because she adds, "Don't worry. I get nervous too. Take a few deep breaths. You'll be alright."

She must think I'm only nervous because it's reaping day.

I take a deep breath, even though I feel stupid, and it instantly calms me down.

"I'm Paislee," she says, taking a step forward.

"Blu," I stammer. "I like your dress too."

"Thanks."

It's hard to keep close to her in the cluster of moving people, because she's so much shorter than I am. I end up slowing down my pace so that she can match it. It feels good to have someone by my side.

"Nervous at all?" Paislee asks.

"I guess," I say.

She smiles. "Me too. Just take deep breaths. You'll be fine."

This girl seems to have an obsession with deep breaths. Not without reason, obviously.

My older sister Indigo would be so proud of me if I told her I was actually talking to somebody. She's proud of me no matter what I do. Since our mother died and our father "mysteriously disappeared", it's just been the two of us. Teal lives at the other end of the district, so we don't see her often.

Why yes, we are all named after shades of blue. Our parents loved blue. So much it was almost unhealthy.

My new friend and I go our separate ways when we reach the square, and I find myself smiling all the way to the front of the line.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith 17**

**District 8: Blu Vixen, 16, and Gary Redwire, 13**


	15. District Nine Reapings

**A/N: Ah, District 9. The district that canon tells us… literally nothing about! I should say that I'll be on vacation without my computer from Friday the 10th to Saturday the 11th. There will definitely be a short gap because I won't be writing for a little while. Not much to say about the chapter, except that I hope you enjoy, and thanks to CragmiteBlaster and Tyquavis for this pair.**

* * *

_You finally have destroyed all the good in me._

_Face to face, there's nothing left inside of me._

_A soulless shell, I'm so incomplete._

_This is the last time you will ever;_

_You will never lie to my face._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

The cameras show a sweeping aerial shot of District 9 that stretches one for miles. The lines of grain blend together into a golden blur that makes me somewhat dizzy. I take a sip of my wine as the camera returns to the dilapidated Justice Building. District 9 is the first district that can be considered seriously poor. Even District 6 exports more goods yearly than District 9.

"Neveah Sunshine!" the escort shouts. A girl hobbles out of the crowd. At first I think she has two heads, then I realize it's a pair of conjoined twins. The entire square falls quiet; to my recollection, I don't think this has ever happened before.

"Which of you is Neveah?" she asks.

"I am," the girl on the right says. "She's Heaven."

The escort picks a male name. "Gray Golas."

The cameras show a dark-haired boy in the middle of the crowd suddenly seize up and take in a huge gulp. He stays put for a few seconds as though in denial, and then he slowly trudges to the stage, sulking.

Gray doesn't look particularly memorable to me. Neveah and Heaven look more promising, but we're only allowed to have one victor. I don't know how we'll settle those logistics.

* * *

_First the earth was flat,_

_But it fattened up when we didn't fall off._

_Now we spin laps 'round the sun,_

_All the gods lost 2-1._

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

Public speaking is a lot easier than most people think. Once you can get over the nerves, it's a lot of fun. Besides, when you're only speaking to drunkards who think literally everything is humor, your crowd is super easy to please.

I would know. Heaven and I run stand-up comedy shows at the local tavern almost every night. It pays us well, way better than working in the fields like most people in District 9.

The audience cheers, stomping their feet and raucously applauding. Glasses are clinked and beer splashes between them. As conjoined twins, it took us months to work out how to bow without tripping. Heaven is taller than me, so I have to stand on my toes to keep from stumbling when we bow.

"That was great, you two!" our father exclaims, kissing us both.

He always tells us every moment with him is like a stolen treasure. Neither of us was meant to live past twenty-four hours. And here we are sticking our tongues at the laws of probability every day and laughing at them.

A man staggers out of the sea of faces and hands us each a glass of beer. The audience cheers as we race. For the first few seconds, we're neck-and-neck in two ways rather than just one. Then my tongue slips and I bend forward, choking. Heaven downs her glass in the next few seconds and burps loudly, to the delight of the crowd.

"You okay?" Heaven asks, hitting my back.

"Y… yeah," I choke out. "Just… went down the wrong tube."

A good portion of the tavern is already filing out of the front doors now that our act is over. Heaven and I take a seat in a quiet spot near the edge of the tavern. We're both exhausted and just need some quiet time.

As we order our drinks, three older men stumble into the wall and then away from it, laughing hysterically.

"Great job us," I say, absentmindedly tapping my hand on the table.

Heaven nods, and I feel myself shift slightly back and forth. "You did great."

"You too. You know, that new microphone is working wonders."

"Remember the way the old one randomly cracked?" Heaven asks.

I grimace slightly and nod, remembering the loud squeaking noise the ancient thing made every few seconds.

A waiter appears out of nowhere. "Here are your drinks, misses. Enjoy."

"Thanks."

We're only about halfway through our drinks when our father shows up, carrying a bag full of cash. He drops down across the table and lets us both hold the bag, which bulges with coins.

"Fullest cash register in years," he says. "You did great, girls, really."

I just nod. "Did you see that guy in front spit out his beer toward the end?"

"Nelson Cornstalk? The one with the big nose?" Heaven asks.

We aren't really in a place to put down body abnormalities. We each have our own heart, spinal cord, and set of lungs. Everything under our belly buttons is conjoined and we have three legs in total. I can control one of them, Heaven can control the other, and either of us can move the third one. Sometimes it feels seriously freaky to have someone else moving your body, but I've gotten used to it over the years. I've kind of had to.

Overall, I think of myself as a pretty happy seventeen-year-old. Laughter, friends, and a little beer get a girl a long way.

* * *

_Even when my luck is down,_

_I take joy in that our love grows._

_But if my vices are a burden,_

_Please don't let me off._

_Cast me from your home._

* * *

**Gray Golas, 16 / Tyquavis**

**District 9 Male**

Sometimes I find myself absentmindedly thinking back to my childhood: to the days Rio and I used to build fortresses with bricks in his backward and then run around the pile of old tires until we were too dizzy to stand. But then I remember Tiller and I realize there isn't really any golden age to look back on.

Seriously, that kid gave Rio and I hell. Mud in our lunch boxes, wedgies outside of the cafeteria, everything.

I have to crouch to see into my bedroom mirror. Before we moved here, this was a little boy's room. Sometimes I have to kneel on the floor to see my reflection. I still have the scar from the day I stood up for my friend. That was six years ago. I can still feel the bite of Tiller's relentless fists on my face.

I glance at the clock, and my stomach crinkles up inside of me. Today is training day—the day all of the sixteen-year-olds in District 9 are taken to whatever huge grain field is nearest. The day that we're given a taste at the work we'll be doing until we turn to dust. I'm meant to be out of the house in ten minutes.

I hurriedly swish some water in my mouth and shove down a small slice of bread. My mother, father, and brother Cole are still asleep. I try to stay as quiet as I can while I rush out the door, but my sheer panic and haste make that pretty difficult.

I make the mad sprint to the grain field as fast as my legs can possibly carry me. By the time I get to the faded, peeling red barn—check in—sweat is dripping down my face. I grew up near a barn, and it's hard not to get reminiscent as I sprint through the wide-open door. I let them prick my finger just like they do at the reaping, and then slip in the depths of the old wood structure.

A sweeping view of the room tells me most of the other kids have been here for a while. I spot a few of the popular girls chatting in a corner. The nerd kids with braces form another group. Everyone's voices are hushed and hesitant, like we're in a library. Suddenly…

"Gray! What took you so long!"

I turn and see Rio dressed in clothes that are about five sizes too big—probably his father's. He raises his eyebrows. "What took you so long?" he repeats.

"I slept in," I say, groaning. No use lying—there almost never is. "Why did they have to schedule this thing for four in the morning? Why not some slightly less ungodly hour?"

Rio laughs. "I guess they want us to…"

"CEASE YOUR CONVERSATIONS IMMEDIATELY!"

The barn instantly falls quiet. The words come from the baddest-looking man I have ever seen. Tall, muscular, dark-hair, and eyes that send a shiver down my spine, as cold as ice.

"You are soon to be citizens of Port City Number Two, District Nine, Sector D," he barks. "Thus, we deem it necessary that you attend this short introductory day. You will be carrying out a bit of light work to ease you into your first full day next week!"

He mutters something about how in his day kids were put straight in the fields on their sixteenth birthdays and so be it if their backs broke.

"When I call your name, you are to come forward and grab a sickle. You will not speak. First, Wheaton Abbot."

A kid I've never seen before with rosy cheeks and a curtain of violently red hair steps out of the crowd.

I feel a million pairs of eyes trained on me when the man shouts "Gray Golas" and I step out of the group. I'm immediately shocked by the weight of the sickle. My first attempt to pick it up doesn't even make it budge, and the man sneers. My face grows hot as I yank it into the air and run back toward Rio, sweating. I find myself remembering comments Tiller aimed toward Rio and I that elicited the same reaction.

That day I finally built up the courage to fight back was a life changer. I hate when things are off-balance, when they're not right, but is stepping out of line really worth the risk?

"This thing is a million pounds," I whisper.

His frown says, _sorry, but you'll have to deal with it._

We really have to deal with a lot of unpleasant things here in District 9.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith 17**

**District 8: Blu Vixen, 16, and Gary Redwire, 13**

**District 9: Neveah Sunshine, 17, and Gray Golas, 16**


	16. District Ten Reapings

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews and comments! You're the best, really. Thanks to luluthefox and Writer207 for this pair, and I hope you all enjoy. The reapings are coming to a close now, I'll explain how the goodbye/train/etc. chapters will work after the reapings are finished :D**

* * *

_Everything you said to me,_

_You said in vain._

_You lied to me just to get what you wanted,_

_You left me for dead._

_You left me to suffer,_

_Suffer inside._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

I can practically smell cow manure and sweat as District 10 comes into sight. All of the slum houses in the livestock district are flimsy and low-lying, and the pastures that occupy the rest of the area are ill-maintained in the areas close to the Justice Building. Like District 9, a few certain cities on the outskirts of the arena provide the best and most varied crops.

A girl tribute is drawn. "Bryndle Greer!"

A middle-aged girl slowly steps out of the crowd, mouth and eyes agape. Then a gaunt-looking lady, who I assume must be her mother, starts wailing about how she never treated her well enough. I don't know what that means right now, but I'm sure I'm learn as I do my research on Ms. Greer.

A boy. "Arien Whicker!"

A thirteen-year-old tribute, one of the youngest yet, steps forward, looking like he's been punched in the gut.

"You… you've gotta ask for volunteers," he stammers.

The escort looks taken aback. "Oh, yes! Any volunteers?" But there are none, and the boy puts on a sad, almost clown-like frown.

Neither tribute here looks particularly promising, though Bryndle could definitely be something great if she makes a splash during the pre-games.

* * *

_Hey, hey, hey._

_Your lipstick stains,_

_On the front lobe of my left side brains._

_I know I wouldn't forget you,_

_And so I went and let you blow my mind._

* * *

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

Talon pulls the fake wooden sword out of his belt and holds it at arms' length, stumbling slightly. I can tell he's pretty overwhelmed by the Sampson role, but I've been doing my best to help him improve.

"My naked weapon is out. Quarrel; I will back thee!" he shouts. Then his wild grin relaxes, and he breaks character. "How was I?"

"You were…" not great. All I can think to say is, "Draw the sword slower. That way you won't fly forward and trip."

He purses his lips and tries again. "Okay."

This time, he stumbles even more, and his lips curl down into a frown.

"How about you take a break," I suggest, closing my book. "Clear your head, yanno?"

"Sure," he says. "How long will lunch take?"

"Not long."

I slip on my shoes and rush outside. It's an oddly ugly morning, what with the unsightly streaks of brown and grey through the sky. Shivering, I crouch down near the chicken pen and pull a few eggs from underneath the hen's nest.

I rush inside and pop a pot onto the stove, then drop the eggs inside when it starts to boil.

"Impressive," Talon admits. "When did you learn that?"

"Six, maybe," I say.

It does seem impressive, but the only reason I had to take up so much responsibility so young was because of how little my parents were around, what with working double time for grandpa's medicine. Now that he's in the ground, my mother and father are around much more often.

Talon and I rush back to the living room while the eggs boil. The wooden sword still sits on the couch. Talon sweeps it up, narrowing his eyes, and shouts his line with force.

"Better," I say. "You keep stumbling over the line, though." I check the script. "My… naked weapon… is out?"

Talon chuckles. "Yep. His naked weapon."

I don't see myself as immature, but with the reaping so close, it feels good to laugh no matter what. "He doesn't mean his sword. He means his… thing."

Lunch is never much in the Whicker household. Grandma is sleeping in her bed down the hall, and both my parents are at work. I pull two old wooden plates from the cupboard and start slicing up the eggs, especially small because of how little chicken feed we've been able to afford as of late.

"I forgot to ask," Talon says as he pops the first slice into his mouth. "How are things with your grandma?"

"Not very good. The doctors have given up trying to help her. Now they're just trying to… ease her out of the world."

"I'm sorry," he says, half-smiling in a way that's meant to be comforting. I like how empathetic he is, and how much I can tell him. Sometimes he can be a bit irritating, but I try not to pay much attention to that, because he really is a good friend. For now, he narrates the every move of a chicken in the pen at the opposite end of the yard.

"Watch him walk!"

"Look at how he flaps his wings."

I always have trouble dispelling the reaping nerves. All of us do. And when my nerves get up, I act silly. So I laugh along with him, and everything negative slips away for a short moment.

Overall, friends are just great. I'm just a social creature at heart.

And maybe a little bit of an actual chicken at heart, I don't know.

* * *

_Play the bugle, play the taps,_

_Make your mothers proud._

_Raise your rifles to the sky, boys,_

_Fire that volley loud._

* * *

**Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox**

**District 10 Female**

The girly voice of Hetalia Raco echoes around the square, making my skin crawl. Her voice is high-pitched and laced with honey; something uniquely disgusting, even by Capitol standards. Hetalia stands on the stage, belting out her latest solo, and the lot of us mill around the school cafeteria, nervously talking. It's hard not to be nervous when there are peacekeepers lined up along the walls.

Overall, it's a pretty normal school dance in District 10.

I have to search around the filling room for a few minutes before I find Cathy, who wears an old white dress similar to mine. Neither of us came here with a date, so we're just planning to mill around.

"Cathy!" I shout. "That dress is so cute."

"Thanks," she says, smiling. "It was my mother's."

I'd be surprised if my own mother ever gave me a dress. Ever since Dad died she's been too depressed to even sweep the floor, let alone go shopping.

Of course, the extra jobs were overwhelming at first. But, and this is a terrible thought, things were a million times easier with one less mouth to feed. For years I've been trying to convince Mom to get a job or at least start moving around. At first I was gentle about it: now I'm getting fed up. Seriously. I can get really mad when something stressful is corked down inside of me.

That much binds the two of us together like oath. Cathy toys with her silver necklace, the one that literally no other girl in District 10 could afford. I've rarely seen her evidently suppressed wild side, but I catch glimpses of it whenever she gets talkative. She's said repeatedly to me that she hates her rich life, that she'd love to be one of us ranchers rather than just sitting on a velvet couch and shouting orders.

Can I really say I'd like to trade places with her?

Cathy and I stroll around the slowly filling cafeteria for the next few minutes. The punch line is too long at first, so we head over to the snack line and pick up some crackers and bread. Only the best for District 10's children.

Hetalia Raco's voice fades, and we all clap while her and her band prepare their next song. Cathy and I keep moving around, chatting politely with the other kids. The dance lasts for hours and hours, and eventually the kids start clearing away, and the peacekeepers start tearing down the ceiling banners.

After most of the people have left, it's still hot, but not as hot. The two of us leave the school and hang out on the crowded blacktop, chatting while we wait for Dennis to show up.

Dennis is the most wild kid I know, the most spirited, the most carefree. When the issues with mom and starvation and the general shit quality of life in District 10 kick in, I head over to his place and instantly feel better. Sometimes it's refreshing for a change, any change at all, even a dangerous or an illegal one.

The crowd falls silent as the whine of Dennis' motorbike grows louder and louder.

"Let's ride," he says, sliding up the leather seat to make room for the two of us. The last time I rode with him was six months ago at Capitolmas, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. Cathy is a little more hesitant to slide onto the seat, and I pull her on, laughing.

I love this. This is who I am: not just a kind, hard-working, quiet spirit, but a wild spirit, a yearning spirit.

And as we take off into a night, I undo my neat ponytail so that my hair ripples behind me, and I just want this moment to last forever.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith 17**

**District 8: Blu Vixen, 16, and Gary Redwire, 13**

**District 9: Neveah Sunshine, 17, and Gray Golas, 16**

**District 10: Bryndle Greer, 16, and Arien Whicker, 13**


	17. District Eleven Reapings

**A/N: You might notice an excess of TS songs used for my characters. Because her music is really narrative, she has a song for pretty much every personality trait in existence. Thanks to Annabeth Pie and 2017tnt for this pair. We're on the home stretch of the reapings :D**

* * *

_Twenty-seven, everyone was nice,_

_Got to see them, make them pay the price._

_See their bodies out on the ice,_

_Take my time._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

District 11 is the largest district by size, so it isn't a surprise that it has one of the largest populations. In fact, it's second only to District 6. Both have serious problems with overpopulation and lack of food. When I peer over the square, I see a swath of dark skin. The town surrounding the Justice Building is rundown and decrepit, and beyond that the sun gleams on the sparkling crops.

"Fawn Weed!" A seventeen-year-old girl steps out of the crowd, her eyes set in a dead gaze on the stage. When she reaches the stage, she turns around and stares daggers at the crowd, making the temperature drop ten degrees.

"Edamame Stanton!" A fifteen-year-old from the middle of the crowd hardly reacts while he walks to the stage. He isn't sniffling, he isn't crying. He just has his eyes fixed on the stage in an almost determined way.

Both kids here are intriguing enough, if nothing else.

* * *

_So this is me swallowing my pride,_

_Standing in front of you,_

_Saying I'm sorry for that night._

_And I go back to December all the time._

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie**

**District 11 Female**

The field is ugliest in the morning, and that's really saying something because it's an ugly place. Nobody gives a crap about repairing the old fence, so horses and cows are constantly slipping in. Ugly animals that groan and piss and shit all day long. I have to clean up after them and sometimes haul the dead ones out of the field. I would rather they all just die. Dead horses don't smell nearly as bad as living horses, at least for the first few hours.

As you can see, life in the agriculture district is pretty much paradise.

Maybe I shouldn't be trash talking my home district so badly. At least the work house gives us three meals a day and warm beds to sleep in each night. The lady who runs the place, Ms. Wade, isn't too bad either. All she does if you forget to fold your clothes is slip mud in them. Yeah, she's not too bad.

I lean against the fence, staring at the newest cow to slip into the place. Her sleek black coat makes her stand out. She sniffles, and something yellow falls out of her nose.

"You're disgusting, you know that?"

A heated moo answers me.

Really, I don't hate cows or horses or muddy sheets in particular. Maybe I just hate life. It's not like I ran away because my mother and father bought me chocolates every day after school. If I could, I'd happily be less cold about everything. But in a home as shit as District 11, staying optimistic is tough.

"Morning, Fawn. Don't you look like a bright ray of sunshine this morning." Lily's voice.

Lily is only a tad bit shorter than me, which is weird because she's actually two years older than me. We came to the work house the same year. She ran away from her family too. I try not to be rude to her, because she really is a good friend. But sometimes hurtful things that I can't control slip out of my mouth.

"Sure," I say, "and such a splendid morning." I gesture toward the murky grey sky.

"What're you doing with that cow? Is he a trespasser?"

"Of course he's a trespasser," I respond. "Which means he must be evacuated from the premises. Can you help me?"

"I've got to be at my post in forty minutes, but sure."

All this is risky work, because there's always the chance the cow could randomly lash out and whoop my ass. I stand in front of it and draw it in my direction with food, and Lily stands behind, shoving its furry rump whenever it stops moving.

My only two friends in the world are Lily and my roommate Daisy, really. I guess the reason I don't have many friends is because I'm not a friendly person. I think I could be one, if I tried. But I'm just juggling too many plates right now.

* * *

_You don't have to say, what you did,_

_I already know, I found out from him._

_Now there's just no chance,_

_With you and me,_

_There'll never be._

_Don't it make you sad about it?_

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

My best friend died when I was five years old. Shot by a peacekeeper because his family couldn't meet their labor quotas. He was only eight at the time, and I remember storming to my parents that night. At that age, I didn't know what the world was really like, how cruel it was. I demanded to know what he had done to deserve something like that.

"Child, your guess is as good as mine. Fate is a mysterious mistress. Things are not always as they seem," my father said.

My grandfather died two years later, three days after my seventh birthday. I saw him close his eyes for the last time, and I saw his limbs droop down on the stretchy surface of the cot. Some kind of pure terror filled me.

"I don't want to die," I told my parents that night. "I'm scared."

My mother put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and her voice was like the first bite of a warm cookie. "Child, death is not something to fear. One day, when you're old and very tired, a beautiful bluebird will come to show you the way. Now you aren't afraid of bluebirds, are you?"

"No," I said.

Those were my first two hints that the world was a cruel, cruel place. It's no less cruel eight years later.

The weirdest feeling is not being scared of the reaping. My first few reapings, I woke up crying because I was so anxious. But so many bad things have happened to me since then that I'm almost desensitized to the whole thing.

My best friend Wasp is much more nervous about things. I wish I could be empathetic toward him. I try to be, I really do. But sometimes it's really hard to think outside of my little box.

"Take a deep breath," I say. "Really."

He breathes in and out, his shoulders rising and falling. "I'm really scared," he finally says.

"Me too. Just think about how many kids are here. You aren't going to get reaped. There's no chance."

I hate my robotic responses.

And yes, there is a chance, though I don't say that out loud.

Wasp cringes as the peacekeeper pricks his finger. I try not to react as the drop of blood drizzles down my dark skin, but I do flinch a little. It's not like I'm made of stone or anything, however hardened I may be.

We head over to the square together, and I try to keep quiet. Words would just make a heavy situation even heavier.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith 17**

**District 8: Blu Vixen, 16, and Gary Redwire, 13**

**District 9: Neveah Sunshine, 17, and Gray Golas, 16**

**District 10: Bryndle Greer, 16, and Arien Whicker, 13**

**District 11: Fawn Weed, 17, and Edamame Stanton, 15**


	18. District Twelve Reapings

**A/N: Woot, the last reaping! Before you leave, please fill out the poll on my profile, I just want to get an idea of who you all like and who you don't. Thanks to CragmiteBlaster and CandleFire45 for this duo. Goodbyes and train rides are next :D**

* * *

_When the Devil is too busy,_

_And death's a bit too much._

_They call on me, by name you see,_

_For my special touch._

_To the gentlemen I'm Miss Fortune_

_To the ladies I'm Sir Prize._

_But call me by any name,_

_Any way it's all the same._

* * *

**Ahenobarbus Lock, 49**

**President of Panem**

District 12 is definitely the dreariest and ugliest of the twelve districts. Even the square, which is used for all public viewings, is ill-maintained; the Justice Building is practically crumbling, and the nine-thousand-ish District 12 citizens wear clothes that are torn and caked with dirt and dust. The buildings of the district are flat and very makeshift, with mud-thatched rooves and buckling walls. Each of them has a television, however. How else would we keep them all informed?

A female tribute is called to stage. "Heather Lotus!" The cameras cut to a dark-haired eighteen year old in the crowd. She opens her mouth suddenly in surprise. She tries to hide her shock, but she's already been grabbed, and she eyes each girl as she walks to the stage, as though carefully criticizing each of them.

A boy. "Turner Willard!" A short thirteen-year-old lets out a shrill screech of terror. He staggers to the stage with a small book in hand: a notebook, I realize. Two boring tributes from a boring district. Pretty standard fare.

The audience cheers as Fletcher Sanders stretches to full height, not looking the slightest bit exhausted from making so much commentary.

"Thanks for tuning in, everybody! Have a great night!" he shouts, his smile twitching as the cameras click off.

* * *

_Tonight I'll dream, while I'm in bed._

_When silly thoughts go through my head._

'_Bout the bugs and alphabet._

_When I wake tomorrow, I'll bet,_

_That you and I will walk together again._

* * *

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

You can't win the Hunger Games at thirteen years old, unless you're Router or Poplin. Only Pixel has won at age twelve. The only victor younger than that, and the only under-twelve to ever enter the games, is Surge, who won at only four days old.

You can't win the Hunger Games coming from District 12, unless you're Misty or Haymitch or Arnold. Misty was so screwed up by her brother's death during her games that she turned to a hermit and refused to talk to anyone until she drank herself to death a few decades later. Haymitch was a broken alcoholic for most of his life before he made a recovery for the girl of his dreams. He died only a few years later. Arnold is so starry-eyed and Capitol-oriented that we in District 12 all like to pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't win the Hunger Games if you're under five feet tall. Sure, Pixel has done it, but she relied heavily on the other tributes to reach her victory. So did Poplin, the second shortest victor after her. And don't say Surge because he doesn't count.

As you can see, I'm pretty much screwed if I'm reaped.

I keep record of every Hunger Games in my notebook. It's got 120 pages total, so I have room for about seven more years before I have to buy a new one. One page is dedicated to every victor, from Cordin and Sapphire on pages 1 and 2 all the way to Fisher and Pollux on pages 111 and 112. Each page has a small tab sticking out of it with the victor's name scrawled out in my spidery handwriting, the color of the tab representing their district. A colored stripe at the top of each page indicates their age at victory. Each page contains a picture of the victor, their weapons, a vivid description of their arena, the names, ages, training scores, and placements of every other tribute in the arena, and much more.

Overall, I'd have to say my notebook is my most prized possession. It's been my only comfort through the famines barricading District 12, through the Tracker Jacker siege of 117, through more things than I can name.

That kind of makes it seem like I'm always alone, but that's not true. The family bookshop gets visitors almost every day. From the 64 percent of District 12's citizens that can read, at least. Beatrice comes in almost every day when her parents leave for the mines. She's nice to have around, and not just because she's pretty. She's a really good friend, and the only other person who knows about my notebook.

Today, Beatrice shows up later than usual, pushing open the front door quickly when she arrives. For a moment she's silhouetted by a flash of lightning, and then she shuts the flimsy wooden door against the cold rain.

"Jeez, that rain is really cold," she says, shivering and stamping her feet. "Anyway, morning."

"Morning." I set down my pen, making sure I don't make any stray marks on the open page of my notebook. Molly Toliday, victor of the third Hunger Games, District 4.

Her footsteps creak around the small bookshop, which is shaped like a square and has only one small room in back. The perk of such a small shop is that it's easy to light. We're lucky to get electricity four or five hours a day, and when we do, this place is bright and toasty. Curling up with a good book is a seriously underrated pleasure.

"Who is it?" she asks, gesturing toward my notebook.

"Oh, it's Molly," I say.

"Toliday or Soltan?" she asks.

"Toliday." I hold the book up.

Her eye trace Molly's face, running over her straight red hair and violently freckled forehead before finally pausing on her eyes. "Her eyes are so… empty." Beatrice grimaces.

"For sure. I hear she was severely mentally ill or something."

"With what? Schizophrenia?"

"Something like it," I say. It's only then that I realize I've stood up and involuntarily taken two steps toward her. My body seizes up and my face starts to warm, but thankfully Beatrice breaks the silence. "I hate those career victors. Turn to Misty."

There are only two victors she ever asks to see: Misty and the victor of the sixteenth games, a girl from District 6 that she shares a name with. Misty Sablone is only two pages down. I turn through the crisp pages as carefully as I can, and I come across the petite girl from District 12 who somehow beat the odds and made the games her own. A girl from 12 hasn't won since then. Julia made it to the final six. Missouri made it to the final five before the ghoul mutts killed her and Kenneth.

"It's been 108 years since a girl from District 12 won. Wow. Just… wow," Beatrice murmurs. She has a cute way of scrunching up her forehead when she thinks hard. I'm tempted to wrap my arm around her or something, but I don't know what to do so I just stand there awkwardly while she shakes her head.

And then I decide to lean in for a hug, because, awkwardness aside, it is nice to like someone.

* * *

_If I wasn't me, I can be sure I'd wanna be,_

_I'm pretty major and I'll say it out loud._

_Living my life in a fantasy,_

_Living my life in my vanity,_

_Hey mom maybe you'll see me now._

* * *

**Heather Lotus, 18 / CandleFire45**

**District 12 Female**

Audrey's house is always freezing cold in the morning. The place is pretty small, and she has a stove that can make the place pretty toasty at night. She always has to shut it off in the morning when she leaves for work, though. Like I said, it's always cold when I wake up.

I drop out of bed. I take a peek out the window, even though I know exactly what I'll see: the depressing, empty street, the way it always looks on the morning of the reaping.

Yeah, District 12 is always depressing, even on the lovely summer morning that happens to be the reaping.

It's not like I think an empty room is a bad place, because I'm not very fond of people in general. People are frustrating and selfish. Am I selfish? You could say that. But it's a dog-eat-dog world, and anybody who says otherwise is lying to herself. Seriously.

Packing for the reaping doesn't take long. I eat a little square of cheese from the pantry and then slip into the old boots that my grandmother probably wore. As I get nearer to the square, I notice the streets getting more and more crowded. Rain is coming, foretold by the dark clouds gathering overhead, and the citizens of District 12 quietly huddle together like they can't trust anybody outside of their small group.

At first I'm tempted to stand far away from everyone else. Then I just start into the fray. The others start clearing around me, intimidated probably, and I walk a little slower. The square is still a ways away, and if I get there late enough I won't have to listen to all of the other girls bicker about how nervous they are.

Tribute is pretty much synonymous with corpse here in District 12, but so is person who doesn't show up to the reaping in time, so I force a spring into my step when two o'clock gets a little close for comfort.

By the time I get to the square, the rain has already come. Heavy drops fall onto the back of my neck, and I crouch forward, shivering. I don't think it'll get heavy, but it does. The escort staggers out of the Justice Building shivering and grimacing, and it's kind of amusing to watch the little dance she does in an effort to keep from getting wet.

I laugh slightly as she waddles like a penguin to the girls' reaping bowl, holding her arms down to keep the wind from blowing her dress up.

* * *

**The Tributes:**

**District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18**

**District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18**

**District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16**

**District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12**

**District 5: Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18, and Newton Zhang, 17**

**District 6: Suzuki Nox, 13, and Rocky Morgan, 17**

**District 7: Trixana Faust, 17, and James Smith, 17**

**District 8: Blu Vixen, 16, and Gary Redwire, 13**

**District 9: Neveah Sunshine, 17, and Gray Golas, 16**

**District 10: Bryndle Greer, 16, and Arien Whicker, 13**

**District 11: Fawn Weed, 17, and Edamame Stanton, 15**

**District 12: Heather Lotus, 18, and Turner Willard, 13**


	19. Reaping Recap

**A/N: I said this would be the goodbye chapter. I lied. Next chapter is goodbyes, I promise! I hope you enjoy this POV from a gal you might recognize :D**

* * *

_You looked so good in green,_

_I hope you're well._

_And you look so good with him,_

_And I'm proud of you still._

_I miss your perfect teeth,_

_I was too blunt._

_I hope you feel happy,_

_That's all I want._

* * *

**Meredith Powell, 55**

**District 7 Resident and Victor of the 74th Hunger Games**

I wake with her name in my mouth. _Lylith._

I always think of her around reaping time. She was pretty, with red hair, a few inches shorter than me maybe, and she was always happy. I always find myself thinking of that night we spent in the cave together, when we couldn't sleep and we spilled all of our secrets to each other.

Her cultist background was chilling. Anyone who questioned the leader's orders was shot without question. The handicapped and homosexual were "demons from hell" and were killed. Leaving the compound was forbidden, of course.

My sleeping cubicle on the train is scarcely furnished. Except my bed and the desk and mirror, the only things I keep in here are my luggage cases and the silver bracelet I took into the games all those years ago.

I throw my legs off of the bed and head over to the mirror. My blonde hair is tangled and frizzy from a night of tossing and turning. I swear, the girl I see in the mirror isn't me. I haven't really seen myself in the mirror since I was sixteen. Of course, she moves when I move.

I dress and then eat breakfast, a lavish meal with an enormous variety of flavors that jam up in my throat and make me taste mud. None of the other 7 victors are up yet. I imagine Sycamora will be up first, because she's a morning person. I also imagine Johanna and the two others will sleep in.

I'd sleep in too, if I could. But I just want some alone time today.

"Morning, Meredith," someone says.

I look up from my bowl of weird orange paste. Sycamora usually keeps her hair in a ponytail, but she's let it go this morning, and it tumbles down her back freely. She looks a lot like Lylith. She looks tired, but aware, and I figure she's trying to be happy to make me happy.

"Morning," I say, lacing my fingers. Sycamora strolls over to the pantry and pours herself a bowl of little pink spheres that leak sweet juice when you bite down on them.

"This food is crazy," she says, and I know she's dancing around with her words because this place is definitely tapped. "Those Capitolites have… interesting taste."

"Very interesting," I repeat. "Interesting."

I can't eat anything after that. An avox takes my plate and then I'm free to do whatever I want until the mandatory viewing. I end up grabbing a book from my sleeping chamber and then settling down on the couch while the others file in.

Aspen comes in first. He is tall and thin, with wiry black hair that I would definitely place somewhere other than District 7. Despite his meager appearance, he has surprising strength and a fiery temper. Not like that's a bad thing, because being feisty definitely pays off sometimes.

Yewwa comes out a few moments later, her long hair tugged back carelessly into a ponytail. Super spacey and super quiet, and I honestly can't blame her. In her games, it came down to just her and her district partner. She did nothing but cry for an entire month.

Of course, Johanna comes out last of all, muttering a list of places she'd like to stick her axe. Her black hair is surprisingly smooth; I've never thought of her as one to toss or turn at night. The four of us pile onto the couch, and the television flickers to life. The dread of reaping time is mutual here, and none of us talks as the reapings play through in slow succession.

District 1 provides a pretty normal pair. Jade D'Amore has calculating eyes that tells me she's very analytical, but she also has creases on her cheeks that tell me she smiles a lot. She drums her fingers to her sides and hums slightly. It's hard to tell whether or not she's ditzy.

Midas Sinthra marches to the stage with a perfect rhythm that would make a peacekeeper proud. He has a face that I might call handsome if it wasn't so apprehensive. It's almost like he's waiting for something big to happen, or he's looking up to something. He's a neutral for now.

District 2 is another varied showing. Kennedy Coil smiles all the way to the stage. She seems pretty confident and excited, maybe a little bit too much so. The way her eyes drift off tell me she's a daydreamer. A far cry from Clove.

Gaius Alabaster is more District 2's mainstay, an uber muscular kid who I can tell is probably good with a sword. He'll definitely be a big threat, and if he has a good interview he could pose serious competition to even the other careers.

District 3's female tribute, Monita Lidell, is a volunteer, which surprises me. The way she looks at the reaped girl tells me she's someone she knows. Their appearances aren't similar, so I don't think it's a sister, but I'm sure I'll find out sooner than later.

Bernie Tropello steps forward in a striped prison uniform, and I instantly recognize him from the news. The arsonist who burned down the building and killed the family. Yewwa must recognize him too, because she compulsively squeezes my hand tightly the way she does when she makes a connection.

The girl from District 4 is pretty normal, a healthy girl named Vista Juarez with braces and a dazzling smile. Her personality makes me think of her as District 1 material, but something in those eyes tells me she's hiding a deadly killer behind those braces and that smile. Time will tell, though.

A twelve-year-old boy, Dock Breckminn, steps forward as the male volunteer. Dock is extremely fit, with muscles and all, and I'm surprised that the chosen male academy student doesn't even react. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe there was a complication, like with Sharka from my games.

Gwyneth Lenaisse from District 5 is a short scrap of a girl with tangled hair and an oily, pimple-covered face. She is the first tribute that I can definitely peg as bloodbath fodder. I instantly feel guilty about this whole thought process, so I just let myself focus on reasons she may have volunteered. She says it's "to set things right", but I can't imagine volunteering into a death match can set anything right.

Newton Zhang is an extremely well-dressed boy with slick black hair. My mind instantly jumps to rich kid, because it's really hard to look that nice anywhere other than the Capitol and, to a lesser extent, District 1.

District 6 is the first district with no volunteers. Suzuki Nox is the youngest yet except Dock. Her face looks dirty and tired. She's probably an orphan or pauper of some kind, and I can't imagine her making it very far into the games.

Rocky Morgan is tall, strong, and muscular, and I instantly know he'll be putting up some serious competition. Something about him tells me that he isn't a stranger to violence and hardship. Aspen wrings his hands with worry to my left; the boy he'll be mentoring this year is coming up. Johanna doesn't have much of a reaction when the screen shifts to District 7.

Trixana Faust gives me girly-girl vibes, what with the hundred colored hair ties keeping her hair in place and the way she points the tips of her feet together when she stands, like a ballerina. She's pretty enough, but not very strong-looking. A wild card, most likely.

James Smith's cross pendant instantly pegs him as religious, and as the escort reaps his name, he glances down at the pendant with a grimace. There must be something about him that he knows other people won't like, something his religion forbids.

District 8's girl, Blu Vixen, is a short and scrawny-looking kid with a ponytail. She cries all the way to the stage, and the peacekeepers grab her because she isn't moving fast enough. An older girl, probably her sister, wails, begging for her to be freed.

Gary Redwire stumbles to the stage with a weird glint in his eyes that tells me he's a few beads short of a full bracelet. He starts reciting some kind of poem, and I can instantly tell he's severely mentally challenged or severely high. Drugs are a problem in District 8 after all. Admittedly, the first sentence of his poem is kind of nice.

District 9 comes on, and Neveah Sunshine is reaped. At first I think she's deformed, but then I realized she has a conjoined twin. Both Neveah and her sister are strikingly similar in appearance and demeanor, apart from their eye colors, which vary slightly. They will be popular, I can tell.

Gray Golas is another strong boy who I can imagine would get along well with that Rocky boy from District 6. He has the stereotypical District 9 look, with darkish hair and heavily tanned skin, and I figure he's a hard worker. He wrings his hands slightly with worry on his way to the stage, however.

Bryndle Greer is dressed in a sparkly gown that practically glows. It's tight, and it's almost like she can hardly breathe in it. Bryndle pulls up her sleeves on the way to the stage. She hates her outfit. It's easy enough to tell.

Arien Whicker is another youngster. Behind the terror of being reaped, there's definitely an adventurous look to him, and I'm instantly reminded of myself when I was young. Something tugs at my gut. He probably keeps a journal. He probably runs. He probably watches sunsets.

Fawn Weed from District 11 is a cold girl. She stands dead still on the stage, staring over the crowd with icy cold eyes that have a hatred so strong inside of them. She hisses to the escort that she has to ask for volunteers; of course, there are none.

Edamame Stanton is pretty quiet and solitary as he moves to the stage; no tears or wails of terror here. He's definitely scared; he's shaking, but he has a strong resolve. That's really all you need to get through the games, and I definitely wouldn't count him out.

Heather Lotus from District 12 comes off as another pessimist to me. She glares at each girl she passes with a look that's almost criticizing, calculating. She and Fawn would make great allies.

Turner Willard steps up last of all, trembling fiercely and clutching a small book in his right hand. A notebook, I realize. His stride tells me that, even though he's naturally terrified, he knows what he's doing and he knows what he's up against. I admire him for that. The faces of the twenty-four tributes flash across the screen in rapid succession, and then the hologram flickers out of existence.

The four of us stand up and silently head to lunch. I'm instantly reminded of the day Carvis and I ate lunch on the tribute train together.

I bite my tongue quickly. All these thoughts about my games aren't helping. I try to force them out of my mind, confident somehow that if I ignore them strongly enough they'll just disappear. I wish I could make them. Then my head might be just a little bit clearer.


	20. Saying Goodbye

**A/N: This chapter explores the characters of James, Monita, Suzuki, Gray, Vista, and Gary. Train rides are next! Here are the songs I'll be using for each of the tributes, I hope I picked them well:**

**Jade: Cat Scratch Fever by Ted Nugent  
Midas: Pumped up Kicks by Foster the People**

**Kennedy: Come Alive by Foo Fighters  
Gaius: Help I'm Alive by Metric**

**Monita: Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift  
Bernie: Burning Down the House by Talking Heads**

**Vista: How to be a Heartbreaker by Marina and the Diamonds  
Dock: Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots**

**Gwyneth: Keep Your Head Up by Andy Grammer  
Newton: Pretty Hurts by Beyonce**

**Suzuki: Enchanted by Taylor Swift  
Rocky: Lose Yourself by Eminem**

**Trixana: Feeling Good by Michael Buble  
James: What I've Done by Linkin Park**

**Blu: Fix You by Coldplay  
Gary: Friday by Rebecca Black**

**Neveah: 2-1 by Imogen Heap  
Gray: Madder Red by Yeasayer**

**Bryndle: Charlie Boy by The Lumineers  
Arien: Hey Soul Sister by Train**

**Fawn: Back to December by Taylor Swift  
Edamame: Cry Me a River by Justin Timberlake**

**Heather: Can't Get Enough of Myself by Santigold  
Turner: We're Going to be Friends by The White Stripes  
**

* * *

_Put to rest what you thought of me,_

_While I clean this slate,_

_With the hands of uncertainty._

_So let mercy come and wash away,_

_What I've done._

* * *

**James Smith, 17 / TheProtectorOfHim**

**District 7 Male**

There's something about being reaped that seems to tone everything else down. The weird thing is that, instead of thinking about everything that actually matters, I find myself mentally listing everything that doesn't matter. I'm going to die. Not a lot of things really matter anymore.

The room they've put me in is completely soundproof and completely silent. It's the most deafeningly loud kind of silence imaginable: it makes my ears hum in a weird way, and I pop a lemon-flavored cookie into my mouth just to give my ears something to focus on.

The minutes tick past, and I toy with my pendant, starting to worry that I actually might not get any visitors. That's a ridiculous thought, I remind myself. My mother and father will definitely show up. Most of the church staff will probably come to say goodbye.

Most of all, I just want my mother to show. So I can tell her the secret I've been keeping for seventeen years.

Time passes. A lot of it. There isn't a clock in here, so I figure it might just be my nervous brain acting up. When I swear my tingling nerves are about to burst out of my skin, I head over to the window. Glass several inches thick with bars on both sides. There must be such extensive security members to keep tributes from running away, though I've never heard of that happening.

The square is already surprisingly empty, with only a few stragglers, mostly kids searching around for their parents. There might be a short moment where something tugs at my instincts, telling me to bang and scream and get somebody to hear me and help me.

I connect eyes with a five or six year old boy through the window, and the sheer obliviousness in his eyes makes me want to cry.

I want to cry right now, but I can't. I think I should be crying. I was reaped. I am going to die.

My mother has been emphasizing selflessness to me my entire life. If she isn't going to show up, I may as well honor her by thinking about the girl who was reaped. What's her name, Trix? Trixana, I remember. Have I ever seen her around school? Maybe in the hallways a few times. Never in classrooms.

Ugh, my mind is running wild. I eat another cookie and take a deep breath.

"James! My baby!" My mother bursts into the room, her face as red as an apple. Her face is damp from tears. "James! James! You're… you're…"

She literally collapses, looking like she's been punched straight in the gut. The peacekeepers slam the door shut, and she stays that way for almost a minute. Every ten seconds, she lets out a scream so loud I think my eardrums will burst. She breaths rapidly in and out, and I start to think they've literally smacked her somehow. What did the priest say the other day? Grief can cut deeper than any knife? The next sentence was probably about Jesus.

Then she leaps to her feet and grabs me so quickly. She mumbles something incoherent.

"Take a deep breath, Mom," I say.

She doesn't respond for a few seconds. When she does, I finally find some clarity in her words.

"Find water. Don't trust the careers. Have a weapon. God help you always… I… my baby!"

She collapses again, all the way to her elbows this time, and I realize for the first time how small she thinks I am. She thinks I'm helpless. I am not. I love her so much, but I know I can't die without telling her. I need to tell her right now or I never will.

When I die, I don't want to be seen as a little boy cowering in the shadows from fear. I want to die as myself. I will not leave my mother with unanswered questions and memories of a little boy afraid of who he is.

"I'm gay," I find myself saying, and I let it all go. "I'm gay, and I've never told you or Dad because I know how much it would change the way you see me. You would throw a Bible in my face or send me away or something, try to change who I am. Sexuality doesn't work that way. I'm fine with who I am. God is great, but maybe he isn't so great if you think he would want you to hate someone who loves the same gender. Seriously."

I finally look up. My mother's eyes are agape. Wordlessly, she turns and walks straight out of the room.

I pull my knees up to my chin and just stare at the opposite wall. And I stay that way for a really, really long time.

* * *

_The way you move is like a full-on rainstorm,_

_And I'm a house of cards._

_You're the kind of reckless that should send me running,_

_But I kinda know that I won't get far._

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

Life is a really, really big jerk. Everyone has to know what I mean.

I swear that I wouldn't have volunteered if Genesis' sister wasn't reaped. That little girl was the light of our lives through some seriously dark times. Her twelfth birthday was three days ago. There's no way she'd survive in the games.

Unexpectedly, it's the silence that terrifies me most about the goodbye room, not the noise. Fancy buildings built by the Capitol always have sound, the noise of air conditioning, settling pipes, water running through the walls. I swear if I lived in the Capitol it would drive me crazy.

Maybe it's like that one analogy that Mr. Rella talked about in science class. Supposedly you can boil a frog to death by raising the temperature of the water very slowly so it doesn't notice. Nobody is born evil. But the people in the Capitol are exposed to so many horrible things that they just get used to it.

This building isn't like the building where I take out tesserae. It's silent, and I mean completely, dead silent. I wouldn't be surprised if somebody at the other end of the room could hear my heartbeat.

Another thing that surprises me is that I'm not completely certain I'm going to die. I have some strength on me, some smarts on my head if I'm not being modest. It's not like I think I have these games in the bag by default, because I don't. But I don't feel doomed.

Even that unnerves me somehow. Because I'm not certain I'm going to die and I'm not certain I'm going to live. I just don't know. A lot of the time that's the worst feeling of all.

So yeah, I'm headed to the Capitol where they're going to treat me like a celebrity for a week before throwing me into a no-rules death match. But at least I know I'm going to die in a place where people will notice me.

I will not be a pauper or an orphan thrown into a mass grave. I will not lose a limb in some factory or die from exposure in the midst of a foodless January. If I die, I will die as something bigger. I will be remembered.

The others all pour in at once, with Genesis and Cideo and Ness practically tumbling into the room. There's a mark of an angry peacekeeper's hand on Cideo's face, and I would probably be mad if I just wasn't so shocked. Ness' broken arm isn't coming along well. It's still in a sling. The only thing I notice at first about Genesis is how worried she is.

"Monita. You have to…" she begins.

"I'm trained," I murmur. "I'm trained, guys. I will be okay. I will come home."

I'm trying to reassure myself as much as I'm trying to reassure them. I'll be up against boys twice my strength, girls who know ten ways to kill you with a common knife.

"Monita, you're my best friend," Genesis says, finally finding the voice to finish a sentence. "I know you'll come back. You're going to survive. You have to survive."

"Don't be so nervous, guys. I'm not dead yet." I'm not usually one to joke around, but I'm just too nervous to do anything but keep talking. It's better to go down talking than go down biting my nails in worry.

Oh, that's right, I won't be going down at all. I'll be coming home. Right? Right?

Cideo and Ness don't say a whole lot. They just lean in for the group hug, and as much as I ruffle Cideo's hair and kiss Ness' cheek, I already feel distant from them. I'll be on my way to the Capitol in just a few minutes.

The reason I'm so conflicted is because I'm just terrified. Terrified of death, sure, but terrified of forgetting. Forgetting District 3. I'd give anything for just one more training session with my friends. Not for the training part, but for the them part. I realize for the first time that I love my home. I don't want to leave, to be dressed up and to have flowers thrown at me.

In the end, I just want to be remembered as somebody good. I don't know how I'll accomplish that, or even if I will, but I know I have to try.

* * *

_This night is sparkling,_

_Don't you let it go._

_I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home._

_I'll spend forever,_

_Wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you._

* * *

**Suzuki Nox, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 6 Female**

I've never been in a room this nice before. There's a crystal chandelier the color of a fresh raindrop, a globe that shows what the planet looked like before the disaster, a tray of pink cupcakes that look just like flowers.

I sort of wish I had more time here just so I could appreciate everything. All the sights and smells clog up in my brain and I can't process anything very well. I lie down on the couch and stretch to clear my head.

This room is fancy, but it's also stifling, and I just want to get out of here as speedy quick as I can. I don't belong in a room this fancy. I'd rather be some place where I can talk to Peugeot and just pretend that the games don't exist.

But that would be a lie. The games do exist and I'm about to go into them. I am going to die. The thought is terrifying, naturally.

I know Peugeot will probably show up. Who else? None of the other girls at the orphanage talk to me. The day Ms. Williams comes to see me is the day President Lock will send us all flowers and chocolates.

Peugeot isn't crying when she comes in, which is a shock. Her eyes just look empty. Like something disappeared from them.

"Hi." I can't say anything else.

"Hi," she responds, and it's definitely at least ten seconds before she goes on. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Really, though? Who'll talk to you at lunch?"

She frowns. "Don't talk like that. You're not going to…" she pauses. "Yeah, you're going to die."

I should feel terrified, or offended, or something. But I'm dying with my only friend in the entire world at my side, even if it won't be a physical presence after they take her away. After they take me away.

"You… you look beautiful," she says, and her hand brushes mine.

"You too," my arm tingles, but it's in a good way, and I don't pull back when she takes my hand in hers. I squeeze my fingers tightly, feeling the gaps between each of hers, and I take a step forward. I can feel her warmth through the air even though I know that's impossible.

My heart races as I rest my hand on her shoulder, and she places her hand on my side. I feel her neck; it is soft and tender, and I can feel her heartbeat, the way her skin rises and falls with her breaths. She must feel my heartbeat too, because she taps her foot lightly with each pulse.

I want to run my fingers through her hair, to feel its smoothness, but she tilts her head sideways, almost as though she's relaxing against me. The hand I have at her side rises, and I know she's on her toes now. She smiles and laughs a little, and I smile too.

She traces a finger along my side, running it up to my shoulder and then onto my neck. The thin line she traces makes me tingle, and I really giggle, putting my hand behind her neck. Her lips are getting closer to mine…

"Time's up!"

A peacekeeper throws the door upon and grabs Peugeot, and the cold suddenly rushes back to me, the emptiness, the nothing. It rushes back to Peugeot too, but I see something else in her eyes, now. Grief.

"Suzuki! You're…"

But I never figure out what I am, because the door slams closed and her words are lost under the noise of the peacekeeper's growling voice.

I don't think I'll ever forget the way she felt.

* * *

_This is how to be a heartbreaker,_

_Boys they like a little danger._

_We'll get him falling for a stranger,_

_A player, singing I lo-lo-love you._

* * *

**Vista Juarez, 18 /2017tnt**

**District 4 Female**

I am not heartless. I am not made of stone. A bird flies because it was born to. A fish swims because it was born to. I kill because I was born in Panem and in District 4. I don't kill just to kill.

That's what I tell myself, at least. I could tell myself a lot of other things, some of them not so good. Like how it's been nine years since a girl from District 4 actually won, like how many other tributes I'll be up against, a lot of them with well-fabricated sob stories and families to go home to that are cuter than mine.

It's not like I have these games in the bag either. To actually make it home, I know I'll have to work hard. My parents taught me that from an early age, and it holds true today. I work hard for everything I've got. It's kind of hard not to when you're from an ethnic family.

My ancestors probably had to work hard. We don't learn a lot about old geography in school because it's just not practical. It's like learning a dead language. But Mama tells me stories about a place called Spain that my ancestors came from.

In the olden days, especially when war broke out, moving across oceans or even between neighboring countries was difficult. People hated people that were different from them. There were walls between countries and immigrants were received with hostility. Then the asteroids struck, three of them: first in the Arabian Sea, then near Hawaii, then Antarctica. The instant melting of the polar ice caps was enough to flood most low-lying areas around the planet. Countries burned. Billions of people died. And then Panem was formed. I won't make this an entire history lesson because it isn't one.

But it's important to my family that we're about family—about honor, pride, dignity, any other synonyms you can think of. Maybe that's why I like being unique so much. Because I want to stand out, to make my mark on everyone I meet. To leave a legacy.

My family pours in all at once, and from the moment they step through the doorway they're talking about how proud they are.

My older brother, Muelle, is the only person who seems at least a little bit nervous. He is three years older than me but almost exactly my height. Weirdly, that's where our similarities end. He actually looks nothing like me.

"Have a great time in the Capitol, _muchacha_," Mama says, placing her hand on my shoulder. She and Papa leave after that, and I'm alone with Muelle. When we were younger, I was alone with him often. Now, not so much. But it's great to see eye to eye with him for once.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. "Because I'd really hate to lose my sister."

"Don't worry about me," I say. "I'll be back before you know it."

"So what's your plan?" he asks, suddenly changing subject. "When will you split from the others? What will you show the gamemakers?"

"Ugh, you never change," I say, feigning a scowl. He really hasn't changed, ever since he was thirteen years old keeping track of different bird calls in his notebook. "To answer your question, though, I don't know. I'll figure things out as I go. Hop from place to place, you know?"

He smiles. "I know. I love you, Vista. See you back here in a little while."

* * *

_Seven A.M. waking up in the morning,_

_Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs._

_Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal._

_Seen' everything, the time is goin'._

* * *

**Gary Redwire, 13 / AlexFalTon**

**District 8 Male**

"April told me to tell you she's breaking up with you." Threader rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Why?" I ask.

"Uh… because you just acted like a complete idiot in front of the whole of Panem."

I squint at him. "You mean the whole of Panem was taping fourth period poetry class?"

"Gary. We're not at school. You got reaped. You're going into the Hunger Games," Threader says, looking as though he's about to cry. He bites his lip.

I shake my head. "I don't understand. Why… why is this all so confusing?"

Threader sighs, and Leo answers for him. "The stupid pills." He grimaces. "I'm really going to miss you."

"I actually got reaped?"

"Yeah. And I think that maybe when you're not so high, you might have a chance to win this. And stop being so dramatic. You're sounding like a girl."

"Yeah. That's what happens when you get a girlfriend. You get all girly."

"I am not girly. And I don't have a girlfriend anymore, remember. Besides, I don't need someone who giggles all the time to complete me." I imagine what would actually complete me, then I realize how crazy it all is. Jumping off of buildings, watching sunsets, surfboarding? Like that's ever going to happen.

My mom is the next in, closely followed by my older brother, Dominic. Mom looks like she's going to kill someone. I realize that someone is probably me.

She clenches my shoulders. "What the hell were you thinking, kid? Was that some kind of joke?" She stares at me, then realizes, and raises an eyebrow. "You're on something, aren't you?"

"I don't understand." Actually, I'm tempted to crack a joke, but I figure the mood is too heavy. It would just not slide.

But she can read my mind, as always. "It's okay, baby. Boys will be boys, right? You can make as many mistakes as you want. We all make mistakes. All we care about is seeing you again."

* * *

_Because lately I've wronged you,_

_And not been on your side, love._

_Maybe I have been dumb,_

_Please don't ask me why._

* * *

**Gray Golas, 16 / Tyquavis**

**District 9 Male**

The scar on my face stings like crazy. I rub it to diffuse the pain, but I just tear up the skin a little, and I hiss, clenching my teeth at the touch of my own blood. I'm not one to faint at the sight of the blood, but it terrifies me more than ever right now. The Hunger Games is a bloody place, and that's where I'm headed.

I take a deep breath. Blood is coming. I may as well get used to it.

But I choose to ignore that for now and focus on the room. Surprisingly, it is scarcely furnished, with a single desk, sofa, and cabinet. I head over to the cabinet and open it up. Dust flies out. There's a handprint preserved in the dust. A tiny handprint.

I think back to Lucas, the District 9 male tribute from last year. He was only twelve years old. He made it past the bloodbath, sure, but he died on Day 2 when the careers discovered his hidden sanctuary. Could that be his handprint? It's possible.

I can't look at it any longer, so I slam the cabinet closed. The nearest mirror rattles. I actually didn't notice it before.

It's surprising how long it takes me to recognize my reflection. I've never looked this tired, this afraid before. My reflection is trembling profusely, but I don't feel myself shaking. Something grabs my gut and twists it. I'm already losing myself.

Deep breaths, Gray.

I'm usually too caught up in work to think about myself, but now that it's so quiet I have just the occasion. Do I really have a chance? I'm tall, I guess. Muscular? Sure. I honestly don't know anything else. I actually laugh a little. I have no idea where I stand.

The door suddenly flies open, and somebody stumbles inside. At first I don't recognize him. He looks a lot like Tiller, if Tiller were five years older than when I last saw him.

Then I realize it is Tiller. He's changed so much. I look into his eyes and I don't see the eyes of the kid who bullied me every day, who punched me in the face and left me with this scar.

"I know what you're thinking," he says, and even his voice is different.

I don't respond because I just can't think of what to say. There's something so friendly about him, but then I remember all the times he made my life hell, and I can hardly help but imagine he might be pretending just to ease his conscience.

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry I was so arrogant, sorry I was so terrible. If you can't forgive me, I'll understand."

I'm surprised by how brief his apology is. At first I think he's staring into my eyes, then I realize he's staring at my scar.

Involuntarily, I reach my hand up and stroke the skin.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks.

"Sometimes," I say.

He grimaces. "I was desperate, stupid, I hated myself. So I took it out on you guys. I've always wanted to apologize. It's now or never, right?," and the look on his face tells me he really has changed, he really is sorry about everything.

I want to forgive him. I want to forgive so badly. But deep down, in my heart-of-hearts, can I really say that I do?


	21. Train Ride to Tomorrow

**A/N: Hello again! This chapter features Heather, Kennedy, Turner, Bernie, Midas, Arien, Rocky, and Neveah! You might recognize a few of the mentors from Broken or 23 Cannons, and a few of them are new. It's a pretty long one, with lots of juicy mentor interaction, so please consider leaving a review if you enjoy :D**

* * *

_I call what I see and if I judge, well, then so be._

_To my neighbors, I'm the best thing around._

_Living my life in a fantasy,_

_Living my life in my vanity._

_Hey mom maybe you'll see me now._

* * *

**Heather Lotus, 18 / CandleFire45**

**District 12 Female**

The rain is not relenting. Round, heavy drops fall on the train window and thunk onto the roof in a weird modulation to my rapid heartbeat. I back away from the window. District 11 is just too depressing to watch. I should be happy. I've always wanted to leave District 12. But now that I'm out of the fence, all I feel is fear.

Turner and Arnold are in the next car, probably getting to know each other. I'd like to talk to them, but something keeps me from approaching my district partner when I can help it.

I've never trusted people, and now I must be more suspicious than ever.

I look down and realize I am gripping the edge of the windowsill so hard that my knuckles are white. I let go and watch the color return to my fingers, and I take a deep breath, thinking about Arnold. I know if I don't get his attention now, I never will. Still, the thought of talking to Turner terrifies me.

I head to the showers to procrastinate. It's like summer rain, only warmer.

I find myself shaking as I head to the train car. Arnold is all we 12 tributes have had since Haymitch died, and his personality is far from fatherly. He lives in his own little bubble, and we try to let him be. It's not like we in 12 could give him much opposition if we wanted to. We'd be killed.

But they can't kill me, not anymore. The worst they can do is make my life hell in the arena. More so than they already will, at least.

When I enter the train car, the first thing I notice is Turner's notebook. He leafs through it nervously, tapping his foot as though in terrified anticipation. Every page is filled with writing. I'm tempted to ask him about it, and I almost do, but my mouth refuses to open.

"So you decided to show up after all," Arnold says. "Enjoy the showers?"

His words are like a bucket of cold water. I think it's the hint of a Capitol accent in his voice that scares me most. This is a man that has been exploited and manipulated to an extent that no human deserves. And now it's me that's headed to the Capitol. The thought that they might somehow be able to change me is absolutely terrifying.

"Well?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah… they were great," I respond. I can't connect eyes with either of them. I finally muster the courage to glance at Turner. He just continues flipping through his notebook. I catch a glimpse of Organdy Karat's face and turn to Arnold. The creepiest man I've ever seen. He blinks about twice per minute.

"This is a great honor," Arnold says. "You both have to understand that, and remember that it's natural to be afraid. Be confident, put yourself out there. Anyone, even a 12 tribute, can win by working hard enough. I did it."

I don't mention that he scored a ten in training had had enough muscle to lift a jewel cart, while I'm too thin and scrawny to hold a pickaxe properly. I just nod and smile a little bit, and it's the fakest smile I've ever worn. I doubt Arnold will see through it.

I can't think of anything else to say. All I can think about is how I'll tackle interacting with the other tributes. In the arena to come, we'll all be fending for ourselves. Making too many friends is a pitfall too many tributes have fallen into in the past.

If you think anyone besides yourself has an obligation to keep you safe in the arena, you're stupid. Seriously.

An awkward silence grows as I drum my fingers and Turner flips through his notebook. Rain continues to fall on the ceiling, and thunder rumbles somewhere off in the distance. A wide open field races by; the fence of District 11 is already in sight. We should be passing into another district soon.

I think back to geography class. District 9 had better be next. I can't imagine that's any less depressing than 11.

"Well?" Arnold says. I snap out of my daze, thinking for a moment that I've missed something important.

"What?" I say.

"What?" Turner says, and I realize it's the first thing he's said since I entered.

"I'm disappointed that you aren't taking this more seriously," Arnold says, his tone reminding me of some ridiculously strict school teacher.

"What do you want from us?" I murmur. I feel myself losing my temper. Turner purses his lips as though in warning.

"I want you to respect me and connect with me," says Arnold. "I am your sole mentor, your sole teacher, your sole connection with the outside world from the moment your pedestal clicks into place. Getting on my good side may well save your life in the coming weeks, so I recommend you take these interactions seriously."

"Your good side?" I shout. "What do you mean, your good side? We're going to die! There are no sides here!"

"Quiet, missy!" a peacekeeper screams.

I'm actually shaking, and I realize something all at once. Memories fall down like pieces into place. I am an angry person. All my emotions—fear, worry, hurt—manifest themselves into anger.

The only reason I'm so violent is because I am so scared.

I am so, so, so scared.

* * *

_Desperate and meaningless,_

_All filled up with emptiness._

_Felt like everything,_

_Was said and done._

_I lay there in the dark,_

_And I close my eyes._

_You saved me the day,_

_You came alive._

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

It's been twenty-one years since Reece Cinty became headmistress of the academy. She showed up at the doorstep one rainy morning and asked for a job. She displayed some of the greatest skill the staff had seen, but she still had to be a trainer for six years before she could be headmistress.

Reece, Enobaria, Victor, Gaius, and I sit in a tight circle around the table. Reece wears her academy uniform, and her long brown hair is pulled up into a bun. We always wore our hair in buns at the academy; keeps it out of your face. Enobaria has her hair down, and she's using a toothpick to pick something out of her teeth.

All I can think about is how much it must hurt when she bites her tongue.

Victor looks good for his age, with light-blond hair and grey eyes that are both analytical and playful in a weird way. And Gaius, my district partner, just stares at his laced hands silently. He hasn't been talking, and I suspect he's mute or deaf or something.

A voice announces that we have passed into District 5. I peer out the window and see the first hydroelectric dam growing nearer.

The thought sets in that I am actually on a train to the Capitol, and I giggle.

Maybe I am flying through the stars on silver wings.

I imagine myself holding lots of different balloons, all labeled with a different aspect of my identity. _Academy graduate. High school student. Sister. Daughter. _I let them all float away, except for the balloon that says, _tribute. _Because now I am really a tribute, and all of my other balloons really will float away if I can't beat down the threats of the coming arena.

"I trust you have a plan," Headmistress Cinty says.

I try to lay out everything step by step. _You're so stupid, Kennedy. _My plan for the bloodbath, the loyalty, the treachery, the stalking, the feast, the victory. I glance at Gaius multiple times. He isn't quiet in a nervous way. He's quiet in a composed, solitary way that I'll admit freaks me out a little.

"Elaborate plans can be just as detrimental as they can be helpful, Kennedy," Enobaria says, and Headmistress Cinty nods in agreement, adding, "if one thing is out of place, your plan will completely unravel, and you can't let that take you off guard."

"I am willing to take the risk, Headmistress," I say.

"Call me Wyst… Reece," she says. She gestures to the five of us around the table. "We're all going to be working on a more… intimate basis, now."

I think about Gaius, and Enobaria, and the other tributes. Most of all, I think of the one balloon that I did not let go of when I stepped on this train.

_The girl with the plan._

The girl with the secret, dastardly plan that I refuse to tell even my mentor about.

My district partner Gaius is a very curious creature. I try to talk to him a few times, but he responds in what I think must be sign language. I ask Enobaria if she has pen and paper, and she says no. There isn't anything to write with on the trains, I guess because they don't want tributes to write anything rebellious.

For now, it's all I can do to make him feel comfortable, to gain his trust.

_You're a snake, Kennedy._

"I know," I murmur under my breath.

* * *

_Here's your ticket, pack your bags._

_Time for jumpin' overboard._

_The transportation is here,_

_Close enough, but not too far._

_Maybe you know where you are,_

_Fightin' fire with fire._

* * *

**Bernie Tropello, 16 / 2017tnt**

**District 3 Male**

"So," Chipson says as Pixel starts to gorge herself on shortbread and Monita and I put a few bites delicately onto our plates. "What are you guys thinking in terms of alliances? Want to talk strategy together?"

I've always wanted to eat rich people food. In my dark, cold prison cell, the only things I ever tasted were cold biscuits, stale water, and vegetables that were probably meant as animal feed. Now that I'm actually in the presence of so much food, I feel flustered and overwhelmed. I'm not ready for the responsibility of being a celebrity.

Then I figure it's better to be a celebrity than a criminal. I think of the other boy whose execution was scheduled for today. He must be dead by now. He can no longer feel pain, and I can, so I must be grateful.

Monita answers Chipson's question first. "Yeah, I'm thinking about some kind of alliance. I just don't know what kind yet."

"Anti-careers?" Chipson suggests. "It isn't a good idea to have your heart set on them this early, but just keep them in mind. If I'm being honest, you're a strong girl. People will like you right off the bat. You, on the other hand…" he points a finger in my direction, "will have just a tad more trouble."

I should feel offended or something. But all Chipson's words do is validate what I already know. I'm a hardened criminal, pale from so many years in a dark prison cell, thin and scrawny from lack of proper nourishment in my early years of development. Of course nobody is going to like me.

It makes me a little sour, naturally, but it also gives me that little kick I need. The kick of motivation, the flame of ambition to make it out of the arena with my life at literally any cost.

"Were you an anti-career, Mr. Harris?" Monita asks.

"Well… kind of," he says, and he grimaces slightly. I can tell he doesn't like being called Mr. Harris. "I allied with the girl from 7 and the boy from 9. We had all scored sevens. Have you watched my games before?" he grimaces again. Behind this thin veil of professionalism, he absolutely hates this job, and I really can't blame him.

"Not in a long time," Monita admits.

"I won in only five hours, the shortest ever," he says. "Pixel, here…"

"Hiya," Pixel interrupts.

Chipson blinks hard. "Pixel took nine days to win her games. And if I'm being brutally honest, she relied heavily on the other tributes to reach victory. It's a strategy that stopped working within the first few decades of the games. Nowadays the gamemakers have a tendency to… well, kill anybody that isn't entertaining them enough."

The temperature of the room seems to drop ten degrees, and I actually shiver. For the first time, I realize I don't have my lighter in my pocket. It must have been confiscated at some point. Without my lighter, I feel incomplete. Like I've just lost one of my arms. The metaphorical itch to set something on fire flares up in me, and I take a deep breath, trying to stop it in its early stages. Trying to stop it before it becomes irresistible.

Now, nothing but bad can come from fire. I must resist the urge as strongly as I possibly can.

I've been silent far too long. I need to say something.

"Anything to say about me?" I ask, and I guess I do raise my voice a little. "Or have you counted me out already? Be honest with me."

Chipson purses his lips. "Kid, you don't have a big base to work on. But that doesn't mean you can't build a really cool tower if you're composed enough."

"You're lying. I'm a criminal," I seethe. "I'm a fucking criminal." And then I let everything go and I actually start crying. This is all so unfair. I didn't choose to be a pyromaniac, I didn't choose to kill that family, I didn't choose to end up on death row. Before, I saw the games as a safe haven where I could delay my death, even if it was only by a few days. Now I see that all I've done is extend my suffering. I'm going to die.

Nobody contradicts me, and I figure they all silently agree that I'm doomed. Pixel passes me a dish of hot, lemon-flavored cookies, and she and Chipson lock eyes. Yeah, they agree. I really am going to die.

I eat the cookies in silence and try to let my thoughts drown everything else out.

* * *

_Here we are, no one else,_

_We walked to school all by ourselves._

_There's dirt on our uniforms,_

_From chasing all the ants and worms._

_We clean up and now it's time to learn,_

_We clean up and now it's time to learn._

* * *

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

I always thought that if I got reaped I would cry. But crying is for things that are small enough to irritate your tear glands. Now, the stakes are too high. All I can seem to do is stare through a pair of eyes that don't quite seem like my own.

I retire to my sleeping cubicle after my initial lunch with Arnold and Heather. I feel obligated to eat anything I can find, but I'm just too nervous to eat more than a few nibbles. I don't really think I could eat anything else if I tried.

Inside, a find a remote that can change the pattern on the wall. I cycle through them and settle on a forest landscape that reminds me of home. Then I head over to the aroma diffuser and fill it with a vanilla scent that reminds me of the bookshop.

I settle down on the bed and pull my notebook out of my pocket. Every single page is the result of hours of meticulous work on my part. Heart thumping, I open the front cover. For some reason, I'm extremely terrified. It's one thing to study and write about the tributes. It's another to know that you're actually going to be one yourself.

That's when it sets in that I really am a tribute. I really am becoming a part of all this. For a moment, a worm of dread overwhelms my gut. Then I take a deep breath and flip to the first page.

Cordin Frey was from District 3, winning the games at age 18 by ganging up with the boys from 1 and 5. They were the first "career" pack, making virtually every kill until the gamemakers let the forest blaze.

Sapphire Waber was one of two tributes in the first Hunger Games quarter to score an eleven. She was also the first tribute who'd trained for the games, and the first volunteer in history. That year, the tributes were thrown into a bombed and abandoned city from the Dark Days that was deemed inhabitable. Wouldn't want all the tributes dying from radiation poisoning.

I continue to flip through the various victors, pausing on Misty, Beatrice, and Haymitch along the way. I also spend a while on Beatrice's husband, Markus; and Mars, whose games featured a niece of Haymitch's.

I must fall asleep then, because I wake up to a loud dinging and buzzing noise. My notebook is open on my chest, displaying the details of Tiger Sterne's victory. I set the notebook down on the bedside table and search around for the source of the noise.

The dinging sound came from a small computer monitor in the corner of the room. The screen is caked with dust, which I wipe off with my hand. The words on the monitor are blocky and very official-looking. As scary as they are, they're entrancing somehow, and I find myself reading them quietly to myself.

**As a new addition to the train rides, we have chosen to allow the tributes to communicate electronically if you wish. Anything and everything you say here is being carefully monitored, and anything you send can be seen by all of the other tributes. Please see a peacekeeper with any inquiries. Thank you, and remember, this is a privilege.**

Curious, I scroll to the top of the page and begin reading the messages.

**ARIEN WHICKER has joined.**

**Arien: Hello? Anyone here?**

**Arien: Anyone**

**BLU VIXEN has joined.**

**Blu: Yo**

**Arien: How r u**

**Blu: You know**

**Arien: Scared?**

**Blu: A little.**

**Arien: Mentor is calling me. Gotta go.**

**Blu: Bye**

**ARIEN WHICKER has left.**

**Blu: Anyone else here?**

**GWYNETH LENAISSE has joined.**

**Gwyneth: What's this? Anyone else on.**

**Blu: I am**

**Gwyneth: Hi**

**Blu: Hi**

**Gwyneth: Hi**

**Blu: This is awkward.**

**Gwyneth: haha**

**BLU VIXEN has left.**

**GWYNETH LENAISSE has left.**

After that, there's a long twenty minute stretch where no messages were sent. I find a small stylus next to the screen that lets me scroll through more quickly than I can with my finger. I continue reading the messages sent by the other tributes.

**MIDAS SINTHRA has joined.**

**VISTA JUAREZ has joined.**

**Midas: What weapon are u best with**

**Vista: Spear, you?**

**Midas: Same spear**

**GAIUS ALABASTER has joined.**

**Gaius: You careers too?**

**Midas: Yeah**

**Vista: Yes**

**Gaius: Cool guys (and girls lol).**

**Vista: lol yeah.**

**JAMES SMITH has joined.**

**James: Hi**

**Gaius: Hi**

**Midas: Duck off 7.**

**JAMES SMITH has left.**

**Midas: Duck off haha**

**Gaius: Why?**

**Midas: the d and f are like right next to each other come on**

**Vista: You think we scared him?**

**Gaius: Yeah**

**MIDAS SINTHRA has left.**

**VISTA JUAREZ has left.**

**GAIUS ALABASTER has left.**

**DOCK BRECKMINN has joined.**

**Dock: I was waiting for those careers to leave. Anyone here? Hello?**

That's the most recent message in the chat. There are a lot of tributes I don't see any messages from, and I figure they're too scared to chat. Feeling a bit like a 3 tribute, I put my hands on the keyboard and start typing.

**TURNER WILLARD has joined.**

**Turner: I am.**

**Dock: Hi dude.**

**Turner: How's life?**

**Dock: Swell /s**

**Turner: what's /s mean**

**Dock: Sarcasm**

**Turner: oh okay, I'm not swell either.**

**Dock: What's that book you have is, it a journal?**

**Turner: a notebook but yeah.**

**Dock: cool**

**Dock: Better leave now, time for dinner**

**EDAMAME STANTON has joined.**

**Edamame: Dinner, but it's morning?**

**Dock: Time zones exist**

**Edamame: I forgot I'm stupid haha**

**DOCK BRECKMINN has left**

**EDAMAME STANTON has left.**

I take my hands off of the keyboard, deciding to watch the messages the others send rather than compose more myself.

**ROCKY MORGAN has joined.**

**Rocky: Halloooooooooo**

**Rocky: Hello?**

**ROCKY MORGAN has left.**

**SUZUKI NOX has joined.**

**Suzuki: Hi**

**SUZUKI NOX has left.**

The conversations after that are pretty stagnant, so I back away from the monitor and head to the dining car. Like Dock said, it is almost time for dinner.

* * *

_Robert's got a quick hand._

_He'll look around the room, he won't tell you his plan._

_He's got a rolled cigarette,_

_Hanging out of his mouth, he's a cowboy kid._

* * *

**Midas Sinthra, 18 / Darkdemon27**

**District 1 Male**

We're not allowed to eat anything until the train starts moving. When I ask my mentor about it, he says it's a rule that's lasted for over a century because nobody's bothered to change it. Apparently, in the first decade of the games, there were issues with rebels poisoning the train food. The mayor of the district doesn't want to be responsible for anything that happens, and the train is no longer the mayor's responsibility the second the train starts moving.

When the train does start moving, the feeling sets in that I'm on an actual moving part of the Capitol. It feels great.

I head to the dining car. I am alone here; Jade, Noble, and Cashmere are nowhere to be seen. I head over to the fridge and pick out a wide variety of food with more color than every other food I've ever eaten combined.

I expect the tastes to clash together, but they don't. The similarly sweet tastes blend together rather nicely.

"Well, well, well. What have we got here?" a joking voice asks.

I look up. Noble is dressed casually, with jeans and a t-shirt, not the fancy suits the other 1 victors wear to formal events. The fact that he's wearing comfy walking shoes tells me he's always ready to dance. I've never seen him on television without a playful smile. He might be handsome in a careless way; his hair is messy and tussled, the waves both spilling free down one side of his forehead and flying away on the other.

"Midas Sinthra," I say. "Your protégé. Pupil. Student. Apprentice."

"I like you," he says, sitting down. "And that attitude is what makes other people like you."

"Well, um…" I'm not sure what to say. I try to act dignified and professional around anybody from the Capitol, but something about Noble makes it pretty much impossible to be serious without also sounding stupid. "I kinda want to take on the typical career role. You know, the all-in-it-for-the-honor attitude?"

"Be careful with that," Noble says. "The Capitol loves a typical career, but they also love it when you break the mold. Try out something new, I don't care what it is. Make people remember you. And have a spring in your step, always."

I like Noble too. He's cool. That's the only word I can really think of to describe him.

"Have you seen Jade around?" I ask.

Noble nods. "She's in the next room with Cashmere."

"What are they talking about?" It's not really something I'm supposed to ask, but I know he'll tell me.

"Cats, last I heard."

"Cats? Why?"

He shrugs. "Common point of interest, I guess. Always good for… what do you call it? Bonding."

Now that I think about it, Jade really does seem like a cat at heart. What am I at heart? And what do I have in common with Noble? Not a lot.

I don't have a whole lot of things figured out right now. But hey, I have a whole week to sort things out. I just hope the deadline doesn't creep up on me too fast, which it probably will.

* * *

_Hey soul sister,_

_Ain't that Mr. Mister on the radio, stereo,_

_The way you move ain't fair, you know!_

_Hey soul sister,_

_I don't wanna miss a single thing you do,_

_Tonight._

* * *

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

I'm not ashamed to admit that the whole train thing is impressive. At the ranch, I rarely saw train tracks, crisscrossing between the fields. I've probably only seen a train two or three times in my entire life. The thing moves probably hundreds of miles per hour and I can't feel a thing.

Like I said, it is pretty impressive.

When Bryndle and I board the train, we're told we have to find our rooms before we can eat. I'd like to complain, because I'm starving and I'd really like to make up for the last thirteen years of my life, but I just groan as they send us off to look for our rooms.

I take off my light jacket and set it on the bed, then check the bathroom. Fully furnished with toiletries and a shower with more working controls than a tractor.

Bryndle is alone in the dining car by the time I finish my shower. Her legs are crossed and her arms are folded in an extremely sophisticated, almost snooty way.

"And you're Mr. Whicker, I suppose," Bryndle says.

"Um… you don't have to act so sophisticated."

Bryndle blinks hard. "Yeah. Uh… old habits. So, are you going to sit down?"

"Sure."

I let out a short yelp as I sit down in the chair, sinking so far down that I'm almost closed in on top of. Bryndle laughs a little. Flustered, I back up to give myself a bit more room. My legs are too short to touch the floor, so I have to mount them at the base of the seat to push myself upward.

"I think this is the part where we get to know each other. You know, before we'll have to kill each other?" Bryndle pulls her hair into a ponytail. Her clothes tell me she's extremely rich, but I don't think she likes it. She unbuttons her dress like it's so tight she can hardly breathe in it.

"Sure. I'm Arien Whicker. And you're Bryndle…"

"Greer," she grimaces. "Ignore all of this." Bryndle gestures at her fancy clothes.

I try not to react, but secretly I think she doesn't really have a right to complain. She's probably one of the few residents of District 10 who has warm blankets to sleep under every night. Then I realize she isn't just grimacing at her fancy clothes. It's her last name that bothers her. Then I remember the Greer name.

"Your mom's a big business owner?"

Bryndle nods. "But she's been… cold. Ever since my father died. It's almost like money is all she cares about, not honesty or genuine. I mean, I know she loves me, but…" Bryndle trails off.

"And you don't like being one of them? One of the rich kids?" It's definitely a little surprising.

"I'm not one of them."

"Yeah, you're not," I agree. "You were just… mailed to the wrong address."

"I guess so."

We both share a rare laugh, and for a moment I forget that we're on a train to our deaths. I hear the faint sound of footsteps; for a moment I think it's just my imagination. Then they both enter the room at once. Steer is taller than Larke by almost a foot, but they're both very muscular and fit. They have very different looks on their faces, too.

Larke wears a smile, almost like she's glad to see us mingling. Steer looks far from pleased, with the way his lips are pressed so tightly together. He opens his mouth to say something, but Larke shoots him a death glare and he closes it.

Bryndle and I fall silent as our mentors sit down.

"Any ideas about the bloodbath yet?" Steer asks.

Larke frowns. "We should get to know them first, Steer. You know that."

For a second he might want to fight back, but then he relaxes. "Alrighty. So what are your names?" His tone is far from hospitable.

We introduce ourselves awkwardly.

"Hmm…" he mumbles. I try to think of all the good things he could say, and maybe all the bad things too. But he doesn't respond at all, and he ends up glancing between us for an extremely awkward minute.

Bryndle clears her throat.

"Time for lunch," Larke says suddenly. As Bryndle and I leave the train car, I find myself cringing at our awkward first interaction. In my peripheral vision, I see Steer and Larke having an "eye conversation" and I know they're just as uncomfortable, if not more so.

I guess this situation is just mutually sucky for everyone.

* * *

_You better lose yourself in the music, the moment,_

_You own it, you better never let it go._

_You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow,_

_This opportunity comes once in a lifetime you better._

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

If there's one thing I've always been able to count on, it's being able to run from my problems when I didn't think there was any better solution. In District 6, we never stayed still for very long, in more ways than one. Sure, we moved houses every few years, but those weren't even the most jarring changes.

Crime was literally the only way we could survive. We changed as people constantly, raising a hand in loyalty with one hand and stealing bread with the other hand. I was a different friend to every single person in my school.

Every corner I turned, I was scared. Every day was uncertain. Often I didn't know where my next meal would come from. I hated it all, but I could never bring myself to complain.

Complaining never helps. I had to learn that early on or I'd never have lasted long in this world.

And it's a difficult, difficult world. That's speaking from personal experience.

Now that I'm on the train, I should be scared. I should be biting my lip to keep from crying, shaking with suppressed tears until tonight, when I can lock myself in my sleeping cubicle and cry until I can't cry any longer. I should be terrified.

And I am terrified, but not in the way I ever expected. In a lot of ways, this is just another change for me. It might take me a few days to learn the quirks and secrets of the arena, to learn how to survive. After that, the Hunger Games are nothing more than a challenge of survival. The one change being that I can't run away this time. I'm effectively trapped.

For the time being, I'm only trapped on the train. It's rather spacious, which gives me lots of room to calm my nerves. Am I afraid? Of course I am. Bravery is not letting your fear stop you.

Suzuki wanders off as soon as we're allowed to go free, and I figure she's crying. I feel bad for her. She's all I can think about as Apollo and Kasey wander into the train car. Well, one of them walks properly.

They're the most mismatched pair of mentors I've ever seen. Apollo is somewhat withered, but his eyes have the same empty look as when he was young, particularly sunken from years of alcohol abuse and shame. Kasey's eyes are the same too, but in a motherly, caring way that instantly makes me happier and more comfortable. There might be a sad kind of remembering in there, and all I can think about is her ally Elizabeth from the seventy-ninth games and how she was too late to save her.

"Morning," Kasey says quietly. I notice that she doesn't say "good" because it isn't.

"Yeaaahgh…" Apollo collapses onto the couch. Kasey shoots him a quick frown. The moment her eyes connect with mine, they're motherly again.

"Anyway. I'm your mentor now. You probably already know me, but I'm Kasey. And you're Rocky, I hear."

"Don't male mentors usually mentor male tributes?" I already know the reason why. Whenever possible, they give the best tribute the best mentor. That little Suzuki girl with have to make do with Apollo.

"Sometimes we all break our own rules." Kasey laughs. The sheer care and comfort in her eyes is to a degree that I've never seen before. Not even in my own mother.

The thought crosses my mind that if I am a victor someday, I want to be like her. I don't want to be like Apollo, so drunk and distant he can hardly talk. Sometimes being brave means being kind as well.

* * *

_I'm dying to know,_

_What's in your head._

_I'm dying to know,_

_How we all got in this._

_I'm dying to know,_

_To help make some sense of it all._

_I'm dying to know,_

_Tell me, is it my fault?_

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

Heaven shovels a big spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate, then ladles on a ton of gravy. She dives her spoon into the pile and eats like she's never going to see food again.

"You know you shouldn't eat so much," Sickle says, frowning a little.

"Yeah," I agree. "You'll get sick. And when you get sick, I have to lie there with you, remember?"

"You're so annoying," Heaven says, but it's in a playful way, and I tussle her hair. Sickle frowns a little more, like every action we take brings her more and more chagrin. I raise my eyebrows.

"Oh," she says, suddenly. "It's just that… this is kind of a first. I don't know what to do with you two. I wish Zola were here. She would know what to do. But she's at the other end of the train with Gray… you know what, let me go get her."

Sickle's voice trails off gradually, and she murmurs quietly to herself as she strolls away.

"Is she… alright? Like, in the head?" I ask.

"I hear she has autism or something," Heaven says. "But it's really mild."

I agree. From what I've seen of her on television, Sickle Salgato gets really upset when things break the usual norm. Other than when she's stressed out, it's hard to tell she's anything except a standard-issue unhinged, traumatized victor.

When Sickle returns ten minutes later, she has both Gray and Zola with her. Gray, who I recognize from the reaping, is already much more scared than I remember him. He shakes and quivers, but he also jerks slightly back and forth, which tells me he's trying his best to stay still. Zola grabs him by the wrist, whispers something inaudible in his direction, and he takes a deep breath.

Gray introduces himself awkwardly. Heaven and I have already shaken his hand before, but his grip is much firmer this time. I don't know what that means.

Zola is one of the few victors I haven't seen very much of, but from what I've seen of her, she's like a simultaneously immature and socially awkward thirteen year old trapped in an adult's body. Her eyes skirt back and forth as she shakes our hands in rapid succession, and the awkwardness is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"So anyway!" Sickle shouts. "Zola. Any first thoughts on these girls?"

Zola tries to give her best advice, but she can't say much. She does comment on our charisma. All the while, Gray stands in a corner, feeling useless. Zola and Gray eventually walk away, and Sickle stands alone with us.

"You two are… great, really. You'll definitely do better than the 9 girl last year."

The 9 girl last year was the first death. Neck broken open by the boy from 2 ten seconds after the gong.

Our parents named us Neveah and Heaven because they're very religious people. In the old stories, people were betrayed, lied to, cheated on. But as long as they were a good person, they could go to heaven when they died. I guess Mom and Dad hoped we could inherit their luck.

So far, I'm not real optimistic.

Sickle quietly chats with us about our lives back home as the Capitol comes into sight. Weirdly, District 9 is one of the four districts that borders the Capitol. The others are the career districts. We also have the shortest train ride of any district because our own capitol city is so close to the Capitol itself.

The moment the train comes to a stop, Zola and Gray rush out of hiding, dressed in fancy clothes. I quickly look down and see only the old dress we wore to the reaping. Sickle isn't dressed in anything fancy either.

A peacekeeper opens up the door, and the noise is overwhelming: a deafening roar, like the noise of a million tractors at top speed. I try to make out individual people and costumes in the crowd, but their colorful outfits all blend together in a sparkling swell that makes my eyes hurt.

I look Heaven dead in the eye and flash her a quick, bittersweet smile. I know it's always been her dream to head to the Capitol as a comedian. This was never how we intended that to happen.

Together, Zola, Gray, Sickle, Heaven, and I step out of the train, toward the welcome center and toward whatever future awaits.


	22. The Capitol Welcomes You!

**We're revisiting Edamame, Newton, Dock, and Trixana here! Thanks for your reviews, guys, they're very meaningful. Chariot rides are next. This is kind of random, but I wanted to let you know that I'm testifying to my state's house of representatives tomorrow, trying to get a bill passed. Wish me luck :D**

* * *

_You were my sun,_

_You were my earth._

_But you didn't know all the ways I loved you, no._

_So you took a chance,_

_Made other plans._

_But I bet you didn't think,_

_That they would come crashing down, no._

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

The jolt of the train stopping wakes me up. That, and the collective murmur of the crowd. It's not very loud because of the train's soundproof walls. Because I can hear them at all, I imagine it must sound more like a deafening roar.

I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and sit up on the edge of my bed, struggling to keep the contents of my stomach down. My feet and hands have never tingled this much before.

I take a deep breath. Nerves won't make what's to come any less painful.

A peacekeeper barges straight in without knocking. "Good morning, Mr. Stanton. We have arrived in the Capitol. You have exactly thirty minutes before we disembark and head to the welcome center. I suggest you shower. There will be cameras and crowds, so be prepared."

One touch on the metal panel where a handle should be, and the bathroom door swings open. The light turns on as soon as I step in, reveling the fanciest bathroom I've ever seen. The countertop is made out of solid pink crystal, the floor sparkles like diamonds, and the toilet is made out of a shimmering material the color of solid gold. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

I feel out of place here. I don't belong in a fancy room like this. I am not a Capitolite. I am a District 11 citizen. I belong in a field.

But I'm not a District 11 citizen anymore. Even if I manage to make it home, nobody will ever see eye-to-eye with me again. I will be on a pedestal for the rest of my life.

I'm perplexed by the enormous, lighted control panel inside of the shower. It takes several minutes of trial-and-error to figure out how everything works. The top row controls pressure. The middle row controls direction, except for the last three buttons, which dispense the shampoo and soap. The bottom row dictates the scent of the water, except when you press the last button. Then it switches to pressure and the top row changes to the color of the light.

It feels so wrong to be this clean. I step out of the shower and look at my hands. There isn't a speck of mud anywhere. Except for a few minor cuts and scrapes, they look and feel like satin. I get the mental image that my whole body might be breathing. That creeps me out, and I have to take a deep breath before dressing.

I leave the bathroom and head to the next room. This one has a sensor too; I set my hand on the panel and it soundlessly glides open. Several dozen outfits, exactly my size, hang in neat rows from a number of long racks. There's silk and cashmere and a ton of other materials I can't name.

I reach for the nearest shirt and start to pull it on, then stop. I lightly pinch the shirt below it, the one I wore to the reaping, and a resounding ache starts up deep inside of me.

I refuse to get rid of it, so I just throw something light over it and then put on a tie. I have no idea how to tie it properly, so I discard it and throw on a bow tie instead.

Someone knocks on the door. Someone different, I suspect, because this person has the decency to at least knock. "Edamame! Five minutes left!"

I hurry out of the room. All of the windows are shut, because it's supposed to be a complete surprise when we step out of the train for the first time. I think back to all of the games I've watched in the past. Most District 11 tributes either emerge from the train crying or staring off with an empty, hopeless look in their eyes. I will not let them see me afraid. I will not give them that satisfaction.

The moment the door slides open, the incessant flashing of cameras and cheers from the crowd overwhelm me. They're not saying the same thing, so I can't tell what they're saying. At first I think there's been an emergency and they're screaming with terror, then I remember they're Capitolites.

This is their favorite holiday; they love watching us die.

* * *

_Just another stage,_

_Pageant the pain away._

_This time I'm gonna take the crown._

_Without falling down, down, down._

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

Fashionista Speechless holds her head up, looking down her nose to take me in. I'm instantly reminded of the way my mother looked down at me whenever I missed a day of violin practice, and I'm not sure whether to feel happy or sad. Even the bad memories from my past feel golden now. Even so, I try to avoid them altogether. Thoughts of home just hurt.

I wait for my stylist to grimace or show any reaction to my appearance. All she does is hold up a few strands of my hair.

"Nice," she says. "Very smooth."

"Yes," I murmur. "Miss."

I pinch myself. I'm not supposed to be polite anymore. I may never be polite again in my life. Luckily, I don't think she heard that last word, because she's already jumped away. She returns with a whole pallete of makeup and stands in front of me for several seconds, staring straight into eyes.

I always fall still when people stare at me. Staring is a sign of authority.

"Alright. Hold still." She whispers something else as she traces the first brush across my forehead, but I'm too distracted to decipher it.

"We're only allowed to use a small amount of makeup on you, at least for now. We're supposed to spend most of our time on your outfits themselves. Some of the other stylists say it's too restricting, but simpler's better, in my opinion."

Yes. I want to tell her a thousand reasons why she's right. I'm just glad that Fashionista is my stylist, not any of the twenty-three other screaming women. Sometimes I think she's the only person in the Capitol with a brain.

She finishes my makeup in about two minutes and then strolls away to grab my costume. The assistant stylist, a younger lady named Octavia, comes in and starts filing my nails, and I can't do anything except stare at the ceiling while she runs the file back and forth. For a room in the Capitol, the styling room is scarcely furnished. I think the lack of fancy lighting is what keeps the room from seeming Capitol-made.

I should feel trapped in a room this plain. I should feel like I'm in a prison. But I like it. It's oddly comforting, in a way.

Octavia backs away like she's finished. Then she stops herself and shoves a mirror in my face. I squint a little to see my reflection.

I'm more surprised than I should be to see myself utterly transformed. Every imperfection in my skin is covered up, every eyelash put in line, every small dent filled and smoothed. I don't see Newton Zhang. I see a stranger.

Some random urge tempts me to reach up and wipe my makeup off. Maybe that would be easy if I had a crazy stylist, but I want to make Fashionista happy.

I take a deep breath and think about sports until Fashionista comes back. A folded, silvery suit is piled onto her folded arms. I imagine there's more to the costume, but I don't have any ideas about what they could be.

"Sit up, Newton," she says.

"Call me Newt."

"Newt, then." She starts to fit my arms into the sleeves of the outfit.

"What are you dressing me up as?" I ask. I don't feel like talking, but it's better than staying silent while she shoves my body into a most likely crazy outfit.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, District 5. Isn't the outfit supposed to represent our industry?"

Fashionista sighs. "Yeah. The base, so the suit and pants, are all we have right now. We'll wrap you and Gwyneth with flashing lights eventually. You're going to look so handsome."

I seriously doubt that, but I know better than to complain. I close my eyes and lie back on the chair as she buttons up the suit, just enjoying the simple silence.

* * *

_Wish we could turn back time,_

_To the good old days,_

_When our momma sang us to sleep,_

_But now we're stressed out._

_Wish we could turn back time,_

_To the good old days,_

_When our momma sang us to sleep,_

_But now we're stressed out._

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

"Alright. Ready to dehumanize me yet?"

My stylist, Ibiscus, frowns. "I don't like this new attitude of yours."

"What do you mean 'new'? I met you thirty seconds ago," I murmur.

Ibiscus sighs. "Kids from 4 these days. Are you sassing me, little boy?"

"Are you sassing me, old hag?" I retort.

I probably shouldn't have said that. Ibiscus turns sharply on her heel, and her shaking hands almost drop the makeup pallete. "Little boy, there are a number of things you have to learn to make your way through the pre-games with your head intact. Just follow our orders. Don't complain."

"I will complain," I spit. "And don't call me little boy."

She doesn't speak for a long time after that. She just brushes a bunch of random different powders onto my face and hums to herself from time to time. It doesn't feel any different from the face paint they used to give us at school carnivals. It isn't hard to imagine she has literally no idea what she's doing. It doesn't feel like it, certainly.

The one thing I don't like about silence is that it gives my mind the occasion to wander. I think a little bit about the past, a little bit about the future. The one thing I don't think about is the present, because my present self isn't in a very good place.

You know, with a thirty-ish year old woman I've never seen before standing over me, trying to make me look physically perfect just so that I can look good for the crowds before they make me murder fellow kids or die trying.

I always toy with my flute when I'm nervous. Not that flute, you sicko. It isn't a complicated thing; just a hollowed out tube of wood with a little removable mouthpiece section.

Ibiscus suddenly snatches the flute out of my hands and tosses it onto the counter, beyond my reach. It happens so suddenly and so unexpectantly that I can't react for several seconds.

"What was that for?" I demand.

"That thing will just distract you," she says, putting on the most punch-able face I've ever seen.

"Give it back. It's my token."

She just continues dotting some sparkly white powder onto my nose.

"I said, GIVE IT BACK."

She sets down her brush, looking more than a little peeved. "You kids these days. You always think you know what you want. You don't have any respect for your elders. Every one of you thinks you're a royal among peasants, the most intelligent…"

"Listen, lady!" I cry out, so loud it's almost a shout. "Give me back my flute or, so help me, I will kill you in your sleep."

Looking completely unfazed, she finally throws me back the flute. "I seriously doubt that. And jeez, you didn't have to flip out like that. It's just a stupid flute."

Ibiscus zips away to grab my costume, and I hold the flute close to my chest. It isn't very much, but it's all I have to remind me of home. Really, I don't know why I value it so much. It's not like there are many happy memories attached to my life in District 4.

I don't know why. I don't know why I put up with my parents for so long, I don't know what I'll do once I enter the arena. I don't know anything. And that's so, incredibly frustrating. It's so angering.

I try to act confident, feisty. But deep down, I'm just so confused and so, so scared.

I groan and shove the flute into my pocket. Whatever fucked-up game life is playing with me, I refuse to let it go on any longer. I will show life that it can't keep pushing me around the way it has been. I will show life that I am in control.

* * *

_Fish in the sea,_

_You know how I feel._

_River running free,_

_You know how I feel._

_Blossom on the tree,_

_You know how I feel._

* * *

**Trixana Faust, 17 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 7 Female**

I drum my fingers on the armrest of the couch, breathing heavily in and out. The parade doesn't start for thirty more minutes. Our stylists and a bunch of other sweating, screaming women I've never seen before rush back and forth, throwing things into place.

Sitting alone on the couch with James, I feel a little out of place, a little useless. I know that's a crazy thought; this entire affair is centered around the two of us. I'd like to talk to him, but I can't think of what to say.

I sit back and cross my arms, staring at the ceiling. I will not cry. I will not cry.

"What's your stylist like?" James asks.

I realize I've been trying so hard to think of something to say that I haven't actually been listening to him very well. "My stylist? She's… what's the word?"

"Flamboyant?" James suggests, smiling a little. "A little too energetic?"

"Yeah," I say. "Everyone in the Capitol is like that. It's depressing almost. The mindless way these people live out their lives. Without thinking, or second-guessing, or questioning anything. Just giggling and dressing up and going to parties all day."

He nods in agreement. "It's no way to live."

I imagine my father. I wonder what he's like. My mother told me he was born in District 7. How have his years in the Capitol changed him?

The conversation gets pretty stagnant after that, with short, awkward remarks made in our struggle to keep it from ending. I glance at the cross on his chest.

"They gave you that to wear?"

He grabs the pendant. "No. I kinda… snuck it in."

"What is it?"

He sighs. "It's a symbol of the religion my family practices. But I won't be worshipping with them anymore. I don't want any part of a god who would hate me for something I can't control."

I don't know what he means.

"I'm gay," he says, and I figure he must have been able to read the look on my face. "And my family thinks it's a sin. Growing up, my mom told me I would go to hell if I held hands with a guy."

"There are actually some people who still think that?"

James nods. "I was lucky enough. At least I have family and friends I could have gone to if I'd been kicked out."

The way he talks about himself like a piece of trash makes me really mad, and all I can think about is the way my dad rejected me too. The way he never saw me as his child because of something I couldn't control.

I'm tempted to tell him about my father. At least one of us is going to die, and I'd really like him to know. Plus, it seems a bit like retribution. He's told me a secret about his, and now I should tell him one of mine.

Even so, I can't bring myself to open my mouth. I don't know why talking about my father terrifies me so much. Maybe it's the thought that I'll actually never see him again. That I'll die and turn to dust and he'll just drift farther and farther away. It's a solid minute before I bring myself to respond.

"I want to tell you about my father," I say. Then I just let the words flow.


	23. Tribute Parade with Robina Caite

**A/N: If you haven't read Arnold's chapter of 23 Cannons, there's a sizable chance you will have literally no idea what's going on with this chapter's POV character. If you have read that chapter, welcome to the secret club, you know exactly what's up with this Robina/Jemima lady. Anyway, please review if you can! Favorite outfit, least favorite outfit, favorite fail, I'd love to hear whatever you have to say :D**

* * *

_I don't want to be awake again,_

_I spend my days with my head in my hands._

_If I go outside I'll fall apart,_

_I am mostly scared by passing time._

_The world it seems,_

_Is more unkind._

_Inevitable tragedies will soon be mine._

* * *

"**Jemima Angouleme" (Robina Caite), 33**

**District 10 Resident and Unofficial Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games**

"Jemima, dear, could you get those plates?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I hurry over the table where Larke and some random Capitol official just finished dinner. For years, they've been randomly visiting the homes of the victors, demanding dinner and board. A blatantly obvious way of keeping the victors on their toes and out of rebellion. They say it's just to check on the victors and make sure they have everything they need, but that fools nobody.

The side of the table where the Capitol official ate is extremely messy: scattered, dirty plates, silverware left on the tablecloth, empty glasses tipped over. The difference between his manners and Larke's is that Larke has some.

I carry a few plates over the sink, where Larke already has a basin of hot water running with a thick lather. Being a maid was never the job I really wanted. But it keeps me out of the way, keeps anyone from seeing me. The knowledge of my existence is restricted to just a few rich people in the Capitol.

Long story short, if anyone sees me and recognizes me as Robina Caite, I'm dead. And as depressed as I am, I'd rather that not happen.

I have all of the plates carried over to the sink in a matter of minutes. Larke hurries over to the television, and the holographic screen flickers into existence as I begin scrubbing the colorful residue off of the first few plates.

"Mandatory viewing begins in five minutes!" Larke shouts. Even when she raises her voice at me, it's never rude.

"Yes, ma'am," I respond politely. I quickly set down the dishes and wipe my hands on the nearest towel.

"Thank you," Larke says as I take a seat on the couch.

"You're very welcome." Larke is the only person that has ever treated me with respect. She's the only person who's welcome. When she's around, the memories of all the tests they performed on my body don't bother me. I just tell them to go away and they do.

District 1's chariot wheels by first, pulled by two snow-white steeds with golden bridles. Jade wears a dress layered with multiple tiers of colorful crystals that sparkle, clatter, and throw beads of light over the audience. Several streaks of silver and gold are woven into her hair, and I realize she's meant to represent some kind of extremely expensive wind chime. Midas is embraced tightly by a thick fur wrap. Jewels are inlaid into the fur, and uncomfortable-looking shoes made of chunky crystal decorate his feet. Both tributes smile and wave to the audience like the dazzling and popular 1s they are, and the audience roars with delight in response.

District 2 is next. Their chariot is a grey color reminiscent of stone, and it is pulled by two dark, slate-grey horses. Their outfits are much more simple than 1's. Gaius, dressed in dark leather gladiator armor, shows off the muscles on his arms and legs. The golden stitching and golden undertones flash in the lights, though this clashes a little with the silver necklace that District 2 males almost always wear. Kennedy wears a white peacekeeper uniform covered with faint white splotches: blood, probably. A strap at her side holds a simple leather whip. Overall, the costumes are relatively simple and much less flashy than their counterparts in District 1.

Monita and Bernie from District 3 wear matching outfits: a dress and suit respectively made entirely out of computer keys. Thousands of letters line their outfits, glossy under the streetlights. I'm sure there are words spelled out in there, but I can't make anything out. The chariot is pulled by two midnight-black horses with flashing hooves and manes. Monita looks confident enough, putting on a well-fabricated look of joy and confidence. Bernie is much more nervous about things, and he shakes as the chariot wheels along.

District 4's tributes are extremely mismatched in both height and age, so it's no surprise when I see them wearing different outfits. Vista is dressed like a pirate, complete with the hat, eyepatch, and hooked hand. The outfit is more cartoonish and childish than scary, and I roll my eyes once. At first I think Dock is dressed as some kind of tree, and then I see the huge beak strapped to his face, and I realize he's a… parrot? A suit of feathers is wrapped tightly around his middle, and claws ornament his hands and feet. A speaker from the chariot emits cawing sounds, and Dock grudgingly moves his mouth in modulation to the sound effect. Vista looks happy enough, and Dock looks like he wants to grab the nearest Capitolite and strange them.

District 5 provides another matching duo: both tributes are wrapped in strings of colored lights. Newton is wrapped tightly with several rolls of twine, and lights sparkle and glitter all over his body, forming the flashing number five on his front. He squints and crunches his face involuntarily, though he does try to look happy. Gwyneth is similarly dressed, with one addition: several strings of lights are woven strategically into her hair, sculpting it into a bow that sits straight up on top of her head. Gwyneth looks dazed and worried, not smiling but waving like her life depends on it. The sad thing is that it probably does.

District 6 marks the halfway point of the tribute parade with a bang… literally. As Rocky and Suzuki come into full sight, I see that they are dressed as hovercraft pilots. They wear thick-soled rubber boots, a black jumpsuit, black gloves, and a silver helmet opened so that their faces are shown. Suddenly, a loud noise somewhere between a grumble and a bang emanates from the chariot, and black smoke flies out of the back, propelling the chariot forward. It's only then that I realize there are no horses: the chariot is moving by itself. It would be impressive enough if Rocky and Suzuki weren't coughing and choking on the smoke, along with much of the audience.

District 7 is the first set of mismatched outfits since District 4. James is dressed like a lumberjack, with a black-and-red plaid shirt, torn and faded jeans, and a fake beard. He lofts a hatchet overhead, and James gasps and struggles to keep the heavy object in the air. He finally drops it, and it hits the front of the chariot, embedding itself half an inch into the wood. He struggles to tug it out, to no avail. Trixana watches with a grimace. She is wrapped up in what appears to be a giant leaf. A headdress of sticks and branches is mounted into her hair. Enormous fake bugs spin around her, mounted onto thin, wiry tracks that are almost invisible. I spot a ladybug and a bumblebee, but I'm sure there are a few others.

District 8's chariot is pulled by two caramel-colored steeds. Blu's hair is pulled back into a ponytail and woven with various lacy white strands that almost remind me of snow. She wears a faint blue dress that almost seems to float around her small form. Gary wears a plain button-up gingham dress shirt and sunshine-yellow tie. The bottom of their chariot is filled with needles, bobbins, and rolls of thread. Blu takes a wrong step, and a needle pierces her stockinged foot. She gasps and bumps into Gary, who almost falls out of the chariot until he catches his fall with his hands.

The tributes from District 9 are wrapped in several layers of sparkling gold fabric the color of sunshine sparkling over a grain field. Gray holds sickles in both hands, and hundreds of stalks of realistic-looking grain wander up his sides, almost like they're growing straight out of the chariot. Neveah and Heaven hold platters containing loaves of bread. I figure they must be glued down, because the bread doesn't fall off or even move no matter how much the chariot shakes. Colorful stalks are woven into their hair, and they wear tightly-woven sun hats made of some natural material.

In my games, Bovine and I were dressed as birds, complete with feathers, fake wings, and corny beaks. Bryndle and Arien are definitely dressed as animals. Farm animals, I realize, Bryndle as a pig and Arien as a cow. Bryndle is dressed in a fluffy body suit a bright pink color, and the limbs are capped off by fake hooves. A curly tail spirals away from her back, and a headband of fluffy pink ears is fit snugly onto her head. Arien wears extremely realistic-looking cow-print that I wouldn't have trouble believing is from an actual cow. A bell hangs from his neck, and the crowd cheers as he jangles his head back and forth. Both of the tributes have plasticky black snouts strapped to their faces. They're definitely one of the most humiliating costumes yet. To my left, Larke makes a sour face. I make one too.

I can't make out many details of the District 11 costumes until they're very close. When they come into full focus, I realize Edamame is literally dressed as a can of soybeans, complete with a full-color label depicting the names of a few memorable District 11 tributes from past years. Admittedly, there aren't very many. Only his head pokes out of the side of the tin can. The top of the can is propped open, and it overflows with something sticky and green that definitely isn't real soybeans. Fawn is dressed as a fawn too. I guess they took the names of the tributes especially literally this year. She looks hot and itchy in her white-tailed-deer costume, which has a tail, fluffy and droopy ears, and antlers. That doesn't make any scientific sense, because only fawns have spots and only grown deer have antlers, but I don't imagine the stylists are very smart about anything other than make-up and glamour. Colorful blossoms, yellow, pink, and orange, stick out of the furry suit at sporadic intervals. They've got to have some semblance to District 11, I guess.

District 12 ends the chariot rides with a lackluster finish. They're dressed as miners for the umpteenth year in a row, with extremely tight uniforms and heavy pickaxes. They also wear thick-soled, heavy boots, thick black gloves, and headlights. They're both sweating. Turner manages to remain relatively stoic, but he does shake a lot, and I get the impression he's holding back unbearable pain. Heather has less trouble holding up the heavy pickaxes, but the strap on her headlight slips, and it falls off the side of the chariot with a cracking noise. It sputters a few times and then goes out. The horses pulling the chariot are red like flames. Even with them, it's easily one of the most forgettable chariots of the night.

The master of ceremonies gives a few closing remarks, and then the screen goes black. Larke and I stay still for a moment, listening to the silence. Yeah, life is shit. But it isn't nearly as bad as it was before Larke came along. I guess a friend is all you need to make life good. Or a tad bit less shit, at least.


	24. This Night is Sparkling

**A/N: Here's Jade, Rocky, and Blu! A new character shows up at the very end of Jade's POV that needs a name. If anyone has name suggestions, leave them in the reviews, and I might pick one. Training Day 1 is next!**

**P.S. Why yes, the training center does have a zip line ;)**

* * *

_Well I don't know where they come from,_

_But they sure do come._

_I hope they comin' for me,_

_And I don't know how they do it,_

_But they sure do it good._

_I hope they doin' it for free._

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

It hasn't gone away since the chariot rides. I don't think it will ever go away. I'll stay like this, with a smile on my face and a giddy tingle in my tummy forever. District 6 can brag about their horseless, mechanically-powered chariot. District 5 can brag about their flashing lights. But we were the belles of the ball, the first and the greatest.

The train that takes us back to the training center is much smaller than the one we rode to the Capitol, I guess because it's a shorter trip so we don't need nearly as much to keep ourselves occupied.

Night is already falling outside: a dark and sparkling kind of night the color of ink. I peel my eyes away from the window as though expecting somebody to appear in the room, but it's just me. Midas is in the next car, talking to Noble. Cashmere is napping. I might think about napping too, but my head is just too full of thoughts.

I find myself expecting the noise to be loud as we get nearer to the training center. I expect some kind of mob to have gathered around the train, but there are only a few stragglers this late at night. I guess even Capitolites get tired.

We slip through the rotating front doors one by one, being scanned head to toe by some sort of metal detector. Part of me expects the leftover glitter from our costumes to set something off, but there isn't any trouble.

This place is clean. It's cool. It smells like some kind of palace.

It is a palace, I remind myself. _Our_ palace. I hope there are a few cute dresses in my wardrobe.

Before we can enter the elevator, a peacekeeper wordlessly hands me a glass of water and a red pill. I stare at them for a few seconds, clueless. Then he shoves them into my hands and walks away.

Cashmere saves the day with an explanation. "I remember those. All the girls take them. You're meant to start taking them now, but they don't take effect until the games."

I blink hard. "What?"

"Just imagine how much harder the games would be if you had to deal with… you know."

"I don't know what you…" I remember the pill's red color. "Oh."

I'm surprised the elevator can hold all of us, but it does. I step in last, having swallowed the pill, and the doors slide closed. I feel it moving upwards and sideways and probably a lot of other ways I can't feel. The sudden movements make me a little nervous. Midas looks a little uncomfortable too, but Noble and Cashmere don't seem fazed. After what seems like forever, the doors open up. I suddenly realize how a cat must feel when it gets a new feeding bowl.

The ceiling must be some kind of screen; even though it can't be more than eight feet high, it seems to go on for miles, lost in darkness and mist. The floor is a kind of black the sparkles a thousand different colors. From some angles, it seems red, then blue, then purple, then a weird mixture of orange and yellow. Ornate crystal chandeliers hang out of the darkness as though suspended by nothing, throwing colorful beams of light over the ground that overlap and blend. The room must be some kind of circle, because there don't seem to be any definite corners. I spot a kitchen area, a group of couches surrounding a single television, a closet of board games, a makeup station, a refrigerator the size of a car, and so much more. Two doors at the far end of the room lead into the bedrooms that must be for Midas and I. A large portion of the wall is open on the left, leading out to a balcony. I make out the sparkling, dazzling lights of the Capitol. Steam rises from a hot tub on the balcony.

Midas' hands fall still at his sides. "This place is… wow."

"Wow indeed," I agree. "I wanna check out the balcony."

I head left. Another set of footsteps comes from behind me. I figure it must be Midas, but I turn around and see Cashmere all by herself.

"You don't have to follow me around everywhere if you don't want to," I say.

Cashmere laughs. "I figured you'd say that. Come check out your bedroom. I requested that it be… themed."

"Themed?"

She smiles. "You'll see."

I'm tempted to stay on the balcony, just stare at the Capitol for a while. But I decide to follow Cashmere, weaving across the dance floor toward the bedroom. The light is off. The moment I flick it on, a gasp tumbles from my lips.

It's all cats. The bed, the blanket, the walls. Dozens of headbands of cat ears sit on the nightstand. An actual bowl of cat food sits in the corner. I trace my eyes to the bed. "No way."

She has a light-grey coat, shiny black eyes, and a long, curly tail. She meows once.

Growing up, I always thought love at first sight was just a myth. Uh uh. Nope.

"How? I thought there were no animals allowed in the training center."

"Cashmere here can get pretty much whatever I want if I ask the right person. As long as she doesn't leave this room, everybody is cool," she says.

I crash on the bed and stroke my fingers through her thick fur, already trying to think of a name.

* * *

_His palms are sweaty,_

_Knees weak, arms are heavy._

_There's vomit on his sweater already,_

_Mom's spaghetti._

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

I lay on my bed in silence, staring at the dark ceiling. Suzuki was all smiles and gasps when she saw her room. I'd like to feel some kind of excitement at the prospect of this newfound life of luxury.

If not excitement, I'd like to feel fear, anger, anything. But I feel nothing. The Capitol is already changing me.

While I toss and turn, I try not to mull over things. Thoughts of home are the most intrusive, closely followed by memories of the chariot rides and of Suzuki. My heart hurts for her. There's no way she'll survive and everybody has to know what I mean. The Capitol can't even have the decency to give her a good mentor.

Sure, life isn't all happy endings. But I really want to give her life at least some kind of closure. I'd like to hang out with her, get to know her. Make her happy, if only for a little while.

It feels disgusting. Thinking of my district partner as an inferior rather than a friend. The thought crosses my mind that being kind to her might actually be hurtful. The last thing I want to do is lull her into a false sense of security. There's no such thing as security from the moment we enter the arena.

I can't take the thoughts anymore. I throw the covers off and hop out of bed.

The first thing I notice is that the light is on outside of my bedroom. Somebody is slumped over on the couch, too large to be Suzuki and grunting too deeply to be Kasey.

I groan. "Apollo."

"Everything okay?" he asks with words that are as empty as his eyes.

"I just can't sleep," I say. The next thing I realize is that the television is on. A movie is playing.

"You're watching a movie?"

"Yeah. Couldn't sleep either."

I squint at the screen. The opening credits are filled with ridiculous names. The two co-directors, Sparklicious Wonder and Kylenpenosa Cometchase, have their names written the largest. The opening credits eventually reach their conclusion, and the movie begins.

I sit down as far away from Apollo as I can. I remind myself that I have no obligation to talk to him. He isn't even my mentor.

Every prospect of the future is scary. I could die. I could turn into a Capitolite. I could turn into a broken alcoholic like Apollo. Thoughts of victory aren't just happy ones. The victor life takes its toll. All of us know that too well.

I shut off the movie as soon as I realize Apollo is asleep. I can almost feel my IQ dropping by ten points with every line of dialogue. Someone talks about how great the Capitol is every ten seconds. I can imagine the president peering over the shoulders of the directors as they wrote this terrible script.

Apollo murmurs something about metal angels from Mars, and then stumbles off to his bedroom. I blink hard, just trying to push Suzuki and Apollo and Kasey out of my head.

I don't take time to look at the title before I pop another movie into the player. Anything must be better than that bag of shit. I have a feeling Sparklicious Wonder won't mind.

* * *

_But high up above or down below,_

_When you are too in love to let it show._

_Oh, but if you never try, you'll never know,_

_Just what you're worth._

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

Something swells in my stomach as I rub the bandage on my foot. I don't want to remember the tribute parade. I don't want to remember the screaming crowds. I can't wait until I can peel this thing off and throw it in the trash. The only thing stopping me is the fear of getting some kind of infection and having a disadvantage going into the games.

I'm probably not going to survive, but that doesn't mean I can't try. And I need all the help I can get.

I slowly dip my foot into the hot tub. Bobbin says it'll help clean the cut out. It does sting at first, but the feeling quickly goes numb.

"Does it still hurt?" Gary asks. If I'm being honest, he really is a great friend. He just gave off a misleading first impression.

"No," I say. I know I should be talking to him, but my jaw wires itself shut whenever he comes around. I hate this anxiety. It's been controlling my life for far too long.

I squeeze my fists tightly. I will not be a slave any longer.

"If you don't mind… uh, what was up with you at the reaping?"

Gary goes red.

"It's okay!" I cry out, maybe a little too loud. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'll just… leave, I guess."

"No, no," he says. "You deserve to know. I was drugged."

"Who drugged you?"

He runs his fingers through his hair. "My friends. Well, I took the pills myself. They weren't supposed to make me go loopy. I just got an overdose."

"Well, as far as first impressions go, I was…" I stammer, trying to think of a word.

"Unique?" he suggests.

"Yeah. They won't forget it."

The conversation drops off after that. The only sound might be a kind of tinkling noise coming from the stars outside. Even the Capitol below us is oddly silent.

I get that pounding feeling in my stomach, the feeling every awkward silence brings. I take a deep breath. I will not let that feeling take control of me one more time. That ends now.

"I've always wanted to go there," Gary murmurs, almost dreamily.

I blink a few times. I realize I've been staring at the moon. "What, the moon?"

"Not necessarily," he says. "Just… on. I want to fly. I want to soar."

"So… uh… what?"

"I hate being confined," Gary explains. "I hated being trapped in District 8. I even hate being confined to this body. Maybe that's why I was willing to get so high before the reaping. Because I needed to be free of everything for a moment."

A thought forms in my head. "I need to show you something."

We both stand up, and I wipe my foot off with a towel. Despite our different ages, we are almost exactly the same height. He could be my brother. I remember seeing something on the way up here, something I know Gary would love.

Part of me expects the door of the suite to be locked, but we're able to leave with nothing more than a slight tap on the sensory panel.

"I feel like we're breaking the rules," Gary says. "Is this allowed?"

"No," I say. "Probably not."

"I love it. Lead on."

Something acidic gnaws at my stomach. I'm breaking the rules. I'm actually breaking the rules. This is terrible. I should be ashamed of myself. This is so fun.

The long, circular hallway that surrounds the suite wraps around the entire building, which lets us see the Capitol from pretty much any angle. But that's not what I'm interested in.

The thin, metal wire that runs down the side of the building is almost invisible, but it is definitely there, at least a hundred meters of wire stretched taut between the training center and the distant ground. Being this high up makes my stomach jump. But I can't let that bother me.

"What're you kids up to?"

I jump ten feet in the air and let out a small scream. Instinct forces me to run for my life. But this peacekeeper doesn't seem mad.

"We want to use the zip line," I say, surprised by how firm I sound.

"The zip line?" Gary says. He notices the wire, and a grin wider than the moon stretches across his face.

"That's allowed, right?" I ask.

For a scary second, he doesn't respond. Then he clears his throat. "Sure, it's allowed. But hurry. Curfew is in half an hour. Let me strap you in."

Gary steps into the vest and starts buckling it up himself. The peacekeeper pulls everything even tighter and then flicks some kind of switch on his back, setting everything like stone. Wouldn't want a tribute falling to their death. I notice many of the buckles are in positions that his arms can't reach. So he can't unbuckle himself and commit suicide.

"Will you be going too, Miss Vixen?"

I freeze, and my blood turns to ice. I glance to the left and peer down at the ground. I want to throw up. No. I don't want to ride.

"Yes," I say.

I'm shaking harder than I ever have before. My entire body tingles. I feel like I'll burst straight out of my skin, my soul is soaring. It is terrifying and amazing.

"There'll be somebody waiting for you at the bottom. The ride will take anywhere between one and three minutes depending on your weight. Have fun."

And just like that, he pushes us off the side of the building.

The first thing I feel is absolute terror. My body seizes and squirms at the same time as I realize that I am practically free-falling toward the ground. Adrenaline replaces my blood, and every inch of my skin feels both boiling hot and freezing cold at the same moment.

I belt out a scream that is lost in the wind, which thunders around me at a deafening level. The games don't matter. The starving districts don't matter. My social anxiety doesn't matter. All that matters is this. Everything else fades away as I scream louder and louder.

I am free. _I am alive._

As I feel myself begin to slow down, every cell in my body begs for the speed to pick back up again. I want to be free forever. I am flying, I am soaring. Gary is already standing on the ground when I reach the bottom, laughing and screaming with a kind of wonder I have literally never felt before. It roars, runs, and crackles through every ounce of my being.

"How was it?" Gary asks, and I can tell this is the best night of his life.

It's the best night of mine too.

"It was great," I say. "I… I've never… It was…"

"I know," Gary murmurs with a smile. "I know, I know."


	25. Training Day 1: Tumble Tower

**A/N: It's June 21st. IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! Staying up late to finish this chapter was my birthday gift to all of you, I guess. Here's the first day of training, with POVs from Monita, Bryndle, Edamame, Gray, James, Blu, Turner, and Gaius. This is going to work similarly to Broken, if any of you remember that. Eight tributes POV every day. That way all 24 get a training POV at some point. There aren't any definite alliances yet, just friendships. You'll see which of these interactions lead to alliances and which don't. In the meantime, enjoy :D**

* * *

_Get me with those green eyes, baby,_

_As the lights go down._

_Give me something that'll haunt me,_

_When you're not around._

'_Cause I see sparks fly,_

_Whenever you smile._

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

Bernie chews his breakfast slowly, almost grudgingly. I wipe a smear of liquid cheese from the corner of my mouth and then ready my fork for another bite of macaroni and cheese. This is the most normal food I've seen since coming to the Capitol. Pixel made it.

"Wow, this is really good," I say through my mouthful of food. "Thanks."

Pixel puts on the playful and cheery smile that only she can make. "No problem. You two feed yourselves up for training."

The mention of training makes the room drop ten degrees. Pixel wrinkles her forehead and heads to the sink to refill her water glass.

I've been trying my best to keep from worrying. I've been training for years. The unchallenged advice Pixel and Chipson give is to avoid the careers at all costs. I definitely plan on doing that.

"You know what we haven't talked about?" I say. "Allies."

"Ah," Pixel pulls her mouth to one side. "I knew you'd bring that up."

To my right, Bernie remains still and silent. I'm reminded of the way criminals like to stay silent until their lawyer is present. He can get pretty talkative when Chipson is around. From the looks of things, I'm pretty sure he hates Pixel. But I don't bring that up. The last thing I want is for anything to get aggressive.

That's a stupid thought. Things are going to get aggressive: if not now, then in the games.

I'm confident, or at least as confident as an outlier can be. Little fleeting shards of self-doubt try to break me down. I try to stay strong. It's the best I can do to keep powering forward.

"Anyway," I repeat. "Allies."

"That's kind of your prerogative," Pixel says. "To be honest, you're the strongest girl I've mentored in years. I usually wouldn't recommend that you look for allies, but honestly… the training center is your oyster. It's pretty much your call."

"Didn't you have allies?" Bernie pipes up.

Pixel's back straightens, and she flinches as if pricked by a pin. "Yeah."

And she did. She made two alliances that both failed within twenty-four hours. I don't know whether Bernie knows that too, but I decide not to bring it up.

"And didn't that kid from 12 just let the careers kill him or something? Didn't…"

"Bernie!" I hiss. "Salt in the wound much?"

Bernie crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "Sugar in the wound is worse. Guarantees infection."

There are ten solid seconds of awkward silence.

"Twenty minutes until training!" Pixel exclaims suddenly. "Let's get chopping."

For me, chopping consists of changing into training clothes and brushing my hair. I'm pretty sure Bernie is just sitting on his bed or something, because I don't hear him moving around at all while I get ready. I have no idea what Chipson is up to. I actually haven't seen him since yesterday evening.

The four of us cram into the elevator and then drop down. My stomach leaps throughout the maze of sudden drops and turns. Bernie, who is a lot smaller and lighter than me, almost hits his head on the wall of the elevator. Finally, the doors slide open with a ding.

Pixel blinks hard. "Not exactly my cup of tea."

"Nothing here is my cup of tea," Chipson says miserably.

By the looks of things, we arrived just on time. Four districts are already here: District 1, District 2, District 6, and District 12, if I'm remembering their faces correctly. Part of me is surprised that District 4 isn't here yet. Then I remember they only have one career this year. I wonder if that has to do with anything.

"Welcome, District 3," the head trainer, an intimidating man named Colosseus Bauble grunts. "Monita and Bernie, please seat yourselves. Mentors, you may return to your rooms our stay here to watch your tributes."

I'm pretty sure Chipson wants to leave, but Pixel tugs his sleeve and he eventually gives in.

Over the course of the next five minutes, the tributes fill the gymnasium. First District 8, then District 5, then District 11, then District 4, then District 10, then District 7, and then District 11.

"Welcome to your first day of training, tributes," Colosseus says. "Listen carefully, because these are your three days to hone your skills and impress the gamemakers. In my not-so-humble opinion, you should be more concerned about a positive appearance here than even your interview. I want to let you go as soon as I can, so I'll keep this short. Don't count out the survival stations. The victor of a twelve day-long Hunger Games spends a total of only about two hours in combat. Everything else is just a game of survival. My other piece of advice: pay close attention to the other tributes. Weak tributes (you know who you are) pay especially close attention to everyone stronger than you. Note their weaknesses. They could well save your life in the arena."

Silence envelops the room.

"That's all I have to say. I'll be at the swordplay station today and Day 3 if you need me for some reason. Other than that, this is all for Colosseus Bauble. You are dismissed."

For about five seconds, nobody moves. Then the boy from 1 jumps toward the spear station, and we start rising one by one. When I stand up, the boy from 5 and the girl from 12 follow my lead. The smallest tributes, the girls from 6 and 8, are the last tributes up.

This place is huge. At first I have no idea where to start. Then I see the girl from 10 alone at the climbing wall station. She looks strong enough. I decide to head in her direction.

* * *

_News was bad on Upland Avenue,_

_Metuchen mourn our loss._

_Sons rebelled, while fathers yelled,_

_And mothers clutched the cross._

* * *

**Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox**

**District 10 Female**

I came to a conclusion last night. Arien had gone to bed and Steer was at a dinner party, already trying to gather sponsors for the two of us. I was alone with Larke in the living room sector of the suite on floor 10.

"I'm going to be completely honest with you, and please don't take offense to this," she said. "Your odds of victory are near zero if you go in alone."

"Why?"

"You aren't weak, but you don't think before you act. You're too jumpy and sudden. You need somebody else to keep you in control, keep you from doing anything stupid. You need an ally."

I don't like listening to people, but I know I should listen to her. As weird as her games were, she's one of the few 10 girls who has ever entered the games and lived to tell the tale. I should take her advice to heart as best I can.

"Struggling?" someone asks.

I'm too exhausted to even look down. I'm only about a fourth of the way up the climbing wall, but I'm already breaking a sweat. My legs are melting. My bones are lead. Ugh.

"Yeah. I'm struggling," I stammer, gasping between each syllable.

"Here. I'll help you."

The girl, whoever she is, scrambles up the wall and grabs strong hold of my leg. "Push up," she says. "I'll help you find a place to set your foot."

It all runs through surprisingly smoothly. I pull my foot upward with an exhausting tug. A strong wrist grabs around my hand, and she pulls it about two feet to the right. I never would have seen that foothold there.

"Thanks," I say. "What's your name?"

"Monita Lidell. District 3."

"Bryndle… Greer. District 10," I say.

"I'd shake your hand," Monita says. "But, you know."

"Maybe when we get back to the ground."

"Sure."

I take another step up. I feel a little guilty making Monita help me up the wall when I'm not helping her at all myself, so I grab her hand and pull her upward a few times.

The height starts to make me dizzy. We're both strapped in, and there are medical teams waiting to rush in at a moment's notice. There's no way this could hurt me. But I start to panic nonetheless. I hate heights.

Deep breaths, Bryndle. At least you aren't wearing a fancy dress.

"Have you ever done this before?" Monita asks.

I want to say something about how it's not the time for conversing. That sounds like something I might say, but Monita is just too nice. "No." My parents were too rich and sophisticated to give us time for anything rough-and-tumble.

Monita and I are both groaning with effort by the time we reach the top of the climbing wall. There's a small platform at the top that we're allowed to sit on for a few minutes, just to relax and get our energy back.

"Aw, that feels good." I can see the whole gymnasium from here: Bernie at the fire-starting station, the careers on the gauntlet, the pair from 7 sifting through plastic bugs.

"That does," Monita agrees. "Wanna be buddies? Go around the stations together?"

I find myself saying yes without really thinking about it. "Buddies" isn't as much of a commitment as "allies". And I don't want to go around making commitments this early on.

* * *

_Cry me a river._

_Go on and just,_

_Cry me a river._

_Baby, go on and just,_

_Cry me a river._

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

"The next frenzy begins in two minutes. Please ready yourselves."

Dock, Turner, Gary, and I sit in a circle around the center of the station: a small patch of dirt and grass in a small metal box near the edge of the gymnasium. We each have our parts supplied: matches, tinder, kindling, and everything upwards of that.

"The rules are simple," the trainer says. "Your task is to assemble a fire that can burn for five minutes. You earn one point for lasting five minutes, and one point for each minute afterward that you do not add any new fuel. Begin in 3… 2… 1… go."

I hurriedly snatch some tinder, a few dried pine needles, out of the nearest bucket and form them into some kind of pile. Gary and Turner proceed similarly. Dock tries to skip tinder entirely: he grabs a few dry leaves and sticks and tries to light them straight on fire.

That's not smart—that doesn't give the flame any kind of core—but I don't say anything.

The first thirty seconds of the competition are pretty uneventful. My first match breaks. I mutter a curse and scramble for another. Turner has the first spark, but Dock is surprisingly the first to get a large flame going. He's seemingly abandoned the leaf idea and gone for a more traditional cone of pine needles as his base.

"Struggling, 11?" Dock mocks.

I don't respond. By this point, I have a slight smolder going.

There are trainers standing behind each of us, holding timers. As soon as the first flame dances over my fire, a timer starts with a click. We're allowed to add more fuel until the five minute mark, so I keep piling on small bits of fuel in places where the fire starts to die.

At first, I'm worried about adding too much fuel and smothering the flames, but that doesn't prove to be much trouble. This fuel is too dry to keep any oxygen out for very long.

Turner blows on his fire, and it momentarily bursts to life. I try the same thing, but nothing happens, and Dock looks me over scornfully.

"Five minutes up!" I pull my hands away from the fire and wait for the results to come in.

Dock takes first place, keeping his fuel alive for a total of eight minutes. Turner manages seven minutes and twelve seconds. I come in third, with seven minutes and one second. Gary only lasts for five minutes and sixteen seconds.

I don't trust any of them yet, and we definitely aren't allies, but we've been staying more-or-less together as we move around the training center for the past hour. Dock is short even for a twelve-year-old, but he has lots of muscle on him and I can imagine quite a few sponsors will be on his side. Turner looks weird without his notebook. He reminds me of a mouse: moving quickly, pausing, thinking, maybe quivering a little bit. And Gary's curly hair and smile is really hard to take seriously. He's about the same height as Turner, but he stands up a lot straighter. And his positive energy just makes him seem a lot bigger.

I'd like to know what the other tributes, and especially the gamemakers, think of me. They don't see me as Edamame Stanton. They see me as 11, and as they critically stare down at me from the loft it's hard not to feel extremely dehumanized.

"The frenzy is over," a trainer says. "You may choose to leave or stay and merge with the next group."

I try to slip away as discreetly as possible. I might try to get back with the group in a little while, but for now I just need some time to myself.

* * *

_Never gave a thought to an honorable living,_

_Always had sense enough to lie._

_It's getting hard to keep pretending,_

_I'm worth your time._

* * *

**Gray Golas, 16 / Tyquavis**

**District 9 Male**

I try to keep on the lookout for allies as the hours tick past. I expect some sort of conversation to come naturally; I guess I'm kind of hoping for some other tribute to approach me. When I can't decide what station to go to, I head over to the sickles. I figure that if somebody wants to talk to me, they will.

The weird Capitol sickles take a long time for my hand to get used to. I've been using the same exact sickle for the past two years, so it makes sense that this one feels different.

The first holographic rabbit leaps out of the wall before I'm ready. I hurriedly try to cut it in half or at least hit it, but it bounds past and dissolves into thin air before I can touch it.

Weirdly, I don't think I've ever used a sickle for anything other than cutting grain. I certainly haven't killed anything with it. This is certainly a… new experience.

The Capitol is not District 9, I have to remind myself. This is a weapon for killing, not a tool for chopping plants.

I'm more prepared for the next rabbit. It comes bounding out of the wall at top speed. I manage to hit it with an accuracy that surprises me. It shatters into a thousand small cubes and then dissolves.

I weather the first minute of the challenge with relative ease, I guess. I do miss a few rabbits, but most of them explode at the touch of the curved weapon blade.

It's when things start to pick up in difficulty that I really hope the gamemakers aren't watching. Six of them bound past before I can react. At least thirty must pass, but I only manage to take down two of them. I turn the difficulty setting down by three entire ticks and decide to work my way up from there.

A hand suddenly grabs the wheel and turns it up to the highest difficulty setting.

I slowly turn my head around, peeved, and it takes all of my self-control to keep from screaming. It's the career pack: all five of them, every one of them taller and stronger than me. They all have bulging muscles, even the girls.

Instinct tells me to drop everything and run for my life.

I take a deep breath. _Just keep doing what you're doing. Don't show them you're afraid._

"Would you mind turning it back down?" I ask, trying not to sound strained.

"Yes, I would mind," Midas says scornfully. "We don't need training wheels like you do. Now scram."

Kennedy and Vista are already cutting down rabbits: not only swinging their sickles, but tossing them too. I'll admit that they're both extremely talented. Gaius, Jade, and Midas stand around me in a triangle, enclosing me. I'm instantly reminded of a snake's crushing death grip.

I take another deep breath. I will _not_ panic.

My feet shake, so I stamp them slightly as though they're dirty.

"I said, fuck off," Midas repeats.

"That means leave," Jade says.

Gaius gives me a hand gesture that I don't need to know sign language to understand.

"I was here first. Can't we just do our own thing? Just pretend we like each other for a few minutes?"

"Pretending to like you would take quite a few acting skills," Jade says. She isn't a crazy cat lady anymore. She's a cold-hearted killer. I've always been surprised by how quickly the careers' personalities can change.

I can practically hear my family screaming at their televisions. I decide it's time to leave. I don't want to anger them any more than I have to.

"Alright, I've leave. But you didn't have to be so rude about it."

I turn around and try not to run too quickly.

"Let's just kill him in the bloodbath," Kennedy mutters.

* * *

_In this farewell,_

_There's no blood, there's no alibi._

'_Cause I've drawn regret,_

_From the truth of a thousand lies._

_So let mercy come and wash away,_

_What I've done._

* * *

**James Smith, 17 / TheProtectorOfHim**

**District 7 Male**

Johanna and Aspen are both still here when lunch is called. I guess I was expecting them to watch us for a few minutes and then leave. Either they love watching us or they can't trust us to be left alone, but they decide to stick around.

The peacekeeper's whistle is earsplitting. The entire room goes quiet instantly, the thirty-odd people instantly falling silent. "Seat yourselves immediately at the table labeled with your district number! We will call you up by district to collect your lunch! Go!"

We all stampede toward the twelve tables crowded into the corner of the large training room.

"Couldn't they give us just a little more space?" I mutter as Trixana shoves me against the wall to make room for Johanna.

"I guess they don't think eating is important," Trixana says. "It's the training that matters."

District 1 is called up. The three people at the District 1 table, the two tributes and Noble, leave the room and return with plates piled high with Capitol food. I can't tell what it is, but the aroma is disgustingly sweet. It makes my eyes water.

I run my finger along the edge of the wooden lunch table as the districts are called up one by one. This table was probably assembled in District 7. Someone I know might have cut down the tree that it's made out of. It's unlikely, but not impossible. Thinking of District 7, I'm transported back in time. Toes curling in sponge-like moss. The soft tinkling of a butterfly wind chime. My mother's lullaby.

_Down in the valley, the valley so low. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Roses love sunshine, violets love dew. Angels in heaven know I love you._

"What are you humming?" Aspen asks.

"A really old song. By mom used to sing it to me."

"Sing it again. I think I know it."

"I do to," Johanna says. "There are more verses, aren't there?"

In a few seconds, everybody at the table has joined in the valley song, even Trixana. Johanna doesn't seem like the type to casually sing a lullaby, but she has a surprisingly clear voice, even for her age.

"District 7!"

I try my best not to bump into anybody as I weave between the tables. I'm pretty sure I stumble into the boy from 5 at one point, but I'm in too much of a hurry to apologize. The peacekeeper's eyes bore into the back of my neck as I follow Trixana out of the room.

I find a plate of apple slices, coated with a crusty covering of thick, crunchy sugar. Then I pick up a thick blue soup that smells like the ocean.

"That's all?" Aspen says.

"Yeah. I'm not that hungry."

We all sit back down at the table. As District 8 is called up, I notice Trixana wringing her hands. I can tell she's thinking about her father. I'm not sure how much Aspen and Johanna know about it, so I don't bring it up.

I try to eat my lunch as slowly as I can, just so that I don't finish early. I end up having to rush toward the end to finish my soup in time.

"Training resumes in fifteen minutes!" the peacekeeper calls. "If you need to relax or take a bathroom break, now is the time!"

I figure the bathroom line will be long, so I stay back in the training room with Trixana. Everything about her, her face, her fidgety movements, displays her worry. I would feel bad for her if I wasn't so nervous myself. I can't feel pity, only camaraderie.

"How are you holding up?" I ask.

Trixana pulls her mouth to one side. "Alright, I guess. But it's getting hard to keep myself together."

"I know," I say. "I know you were worried about the survival stations, but we got most of those done this morning. Let's go on to weapons. Maybe we can do shelter building or fire starting tomorrow."

Trixana doesn't respond. I get the feeling I'm trying too hard, so I stop talking to her.

_Never forget how strong you are, _my mother once murmured to me as she stirred a pot of hot vegetable soup with a wooden spoon. _Always keep trying, my little sapling._

I won't give up. I'll try as hard as I can to force my way out of that arena, even when it hurts.

* * *

_But high above or down below,_

_When you are too in love to let it show._

_Oh, but if you never try, you'll never know,_

_Just what you're worth._

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

The cold wind of last night still roars in my ears. I can't keep still. Adrenaline is my new addiction. It's the knife that lets me cut through the net that's been holding me captive for five years.

The obstacle course is extremely daunting. It has three phases: a net running from the floor to the ceiling, a set of monkey bars, and a weird wheel attached to a bar running uphill. I have no idea what the third phase is, but I guess I'll find out.

A stupid smile seats itself deep on my face as I grab onto the net. I could never have done this two days ago.

The net is immediately difficult. I pull myself a few feet upward, and the sides of the net pull inward. The entire unit tries to tip me off, and my own weight pries a few of my fingers off the net. About a fifth of the way upward, I'm dangling by my hands.

Blood rushes to my center as I lift my feet up, feeling around for the net. I fit my left foot into one of the holes and then climb another few feet upward, finding a place for my other foot.

I'm at least a third of the way up before I manage to flip the entire net right-side up.

Someone chuckles below me. It's the careers. Not all of them: just the boy from 1 and the girl from 4. I try to ignore them as I move farther up the moving net. I glance downward once. A shudder jolts my body when I realize my sheer height. It gives me the energy I need to reach the top.

My hands close around the platform, which hangs from the ceiling by a chain. It's the rest area between phase one and phase two, but I know I can't stay here long.

It takes me at least thirty seconds to pull myself on. My core is shaking and beads of hot sweat dot my face. When I finally collapse, I can hardly breathe.

I take a deep breath and try to calm my shuddering limbs. The two careers are still watching, analyzing my every movement in a scornful way.

Now for the monkey bars. I could climb on top of them or hang underneath. My resolve falters as I realize the distance across the bar course. Too late to turn back.

I don't have much trouble with the first half of the course. This is clearly the most simple phase, and I manage to reach the other side within two minutes. I'm sweating harder now. My heart pounds.

I want to give up, but I remember the noise of the roaring wind.

The careers aren't the only ones watching. A shorter girl stands underneath me, watching enviously. The girl from 5… Gweneth? Gwyneth.

The last phase is perplexing. An angled metal bar runs from my location to the ceiling. A circular object, like a wheel, hangs from a chain on the bar. Two handles stick out of the wheel.

True exhaustion starts to set in, like daggers inside my body. I grab onto the wheel and realize I have to swing my legs to pull myself up the chain.

The entire journey is intensely grueling. There's one moment where I almost think I'm going to fall, and Gwyneth moves away so I don't land on her. But I power forward, ignoring the screaming exhaustion in every part of my body, ignoring the bleeding rashes on my hands. I drop down at the end of the obstacle course and let the tears of pain come.

I've never pushed myself to the point of pain before. But it's so, so worth it.

The boy from 1 nods, clearly flustered. He and the girl from 4 back away.

I drop down the floor. "Good job," Gwyneth whispers.

I try to thank her, but I can't open my mouth. The trainer tells me I need to rest, and I sit down on the nearest bench, thinking about how far I've come.

* * *

_Fall is here, hear the yell,_

_Back to school, ring the bell._

_Brand new shoes, walking blues,_

_Climb the fence, books and pens._

_I can tell that we are gonna be friends._

* * *

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

I decide to revisit the fire-starting station one more time before returning to the hotel room. I don't know why I like it so much. Maybe because it's quiet and out of the way. I think fire starting is kind of satisfying, but not in the way Bernie from 3 thinks. I smell the faint smoky aroma and remember home and think things might just be okay after all.

A few of the tributes have already left. Besides Heather and I, only ten or eleven tributes are still here. The five members of the career pack are huddled in one corner, sipping water from paper cups. They're probably waiting to do the tumble tower, the most daunting obstacle course in the training center. No tribute besides a career has made it to the top since the fourth Quarter Quell the year I was born. They don't call it the tumble tower for no reason.

I slowly gather dried pine needles and form them into a bunch. I don't want to pack them so tightly that oxygen can't flow through, just tight enough that they won't fall apart after the first few sparks.

The last time I was here, I used a match to start my flame. This time, I want to try using the classic flint and steel.

It takes forever. I try not to get frustrated, but I find myself huffing and puffing after the thirtieth spark that fizzles out and disappears. After what must be at least fifteen minutes, a thin flame appears on one of the pine needles.

I move my body to block the artificial wind. Then I wait.

It's a surprisingly complicated game. I have to make minor adjustments every few seconds to keep the fire strong, and even then it almost dies on me multiple times.

I start to add leaves and sticks when the flames get high. I don't think I'll ever get it big enough to add real logs, but I pull the bucket of logs inward just in case. I don't end up needing them. The flame begins to die about two minutes later. I watch as the blue tips of the flames lower. Then there's only red fuel, then only black dust.

The training center is quiet now. Heather and I are the only ones here other than the careers. The five of them have gathered around the base of the tumble tower. I make eye contact with Heather over at the edible bugs station. She shrugs and walks toward me.

"Should we stay and watch them?" she asks.

"I don't think we should go back to the room without Arnold." I whisper.

"So stay?"

"Sure."

I let out a resounding sigh and take a seat, ready to watch the show.

* * *

_I tremble,_

_They're gonna eat me alive._

_If I stumble,_

_They're gonna eat me alive._

_Can you hear my heart, beating like a hammer,_

_Beating like a hammer._

* * *

**Gaius Alabaster, 18 / Writer207**

**District 2 Male**

"Welcome to the tumble tower," Colosseus says. "I normally train at the sword station, but I have taken some time out of my schedule to moderate this event. It's my job to make sure nothing gets messy."

I stand in the center of the group. Jade and Kennedy stand to my left, and Midas and Vista stand to my right. I have the largest physical size, so I have the most strength to pull myself up the tower, but I know physical strength isn't the only thing the tumble tower puts to the test. Midas is thin and swift, which makes for quick movements. Jade has the fastest reflexes, Kennedy is the most agile, and Vista has the fastest-working mind.

"On your way up the tower, you will come across a multitude of objects to help you on your way up. Once one of you has grabbed an object, it is yours. Anyone who tries to steal it from you will be disqualified."

"You will be strapped in," he continues. "However, if you ever lose your grip on the tower, you will be thrown outward and thrown free of your harness. The cushions on the ground are ten feet thick, and we can guarantee you will not be hurt. Winner gets bragging rights. Any questions?"

I couldn't ask any questions if I wanted to, but I don't have any and neither do the others. We all want to get this started as quickly as possible.

Five trainers rush in from all sides and strap us in. Every buckle is on the back of the harness: the entire thing is meant to throw us free in a single instant if we fall. The only job of the harness is to throw us away from the tower before we fall, so we don't hit anything on the way down.

"At your stations!"

We rush into place. I gaze upward and see a maze of challenges: rickety wooden bridges, complex jungle gyms, chests holding useful supplies.

"3, 2, 1… Go!"

The horn sounds. Without looking at the others, I leap onto the ladder and scramble up to the first obstacle, a sea of rubbery objects hanging from above. They're slippery and extremely hard to keep a grip on. I notice Vista nearly fall, but she grabs one of the objects just in time and steadies herself.

I take a few deep breaths and then leap off of the ladder, using my initial momentum to bring me a bit of extra distance. I hear footsteps from the platform above me: one career has already passed the rubber course.

I notice a small metal object attached to one of the handholds: a bracelet covered in spikes. I can't imagine what it would be useful for, but I know it's here for a reason, so I stuff it in my pocket and continue on.

I drag myself onto the next ladder. The ladder leads upward to a wooden platform jutting out of the tower. It rattles and shakes, and I nearly lose my balance multiple times. Midas is already here, fumbling with a ring of keys.

"I think we have to find the right key to unlock that gate," he explains, his voice rattling.

Midas tries to put a key into the lock, but the platform is rattling too hard.

"Gaius, can you stop it from shaking somehow?"

I look around, struggling as much as ever to keep from falling off of the tower. Where the platform meets the tower, there's a space of at least half a foot for it to wiggle. I pull off my shoe and shove it into the gap. The platform slowly stops shaking.

Just as Midas fits a key into the gate, Vista's screams ring from underneath us. I peer over the side of the platform. She has two of the rubber handholds gripped tightly—they must have come undone from the tower. She lands on the cushioned ground, and two avoxes rush in to retrieve her.

Midas and I split apart after that. This next part of the tower is made entirely of wood. I notice small holes cut into the wood: handholds. I grab onto the nearest one and pull myself up the climbing wall, finding places to rest my feet. The tower begins to spin, and I notice Jade's thin body flying away from the tower and then downward into the cushion. Only three of us are left.

The spiked bracelet, I remember. I pull it out of my pocket and fit it onto my wrist, which is easier said than done given the speed of the spinning tower. Using the spikes like the claws of a cat, I'm able to use the flat wall itself as a gripping point to hoist myself farther and farther upward.

I'm drenched with sweat by this point. I haven't seen anything from Kennedy thus far: she's either far below us or far above us. It's three more obstacles (a jungle gym, a maze of mirrors, and a ladder made of a brittle material that breaks as I climb it) before Kennedy falls. The ladder breaks underneath her, and her harness puffs out, throwing her fifteen feet away from the tower. It's a scarily long fall.

Several minutes pass as Midas and I vie for victory. I can feel myself losing strength with every passing second, and I know my body will reach its limit soon. Midas looks similarly exhausted. I'm hoping I can tire him out somehow, but then my sweaty hands slip from the handlebars of the second jungle gym, and I feel myself being blown outward.

I try to remain solitary as I tumble thirty feet to the ground. Air rushes past me, roaring in my ears, and my body seizes up as the ground zooms closer. The fall is too fast to scare me for real. In less than two seconds, I hit the cushion. It doesn't hurt, but it comes as a hard blow.

The trumpets sound, and Midas grabs onto some kind of zip line, riding it down to the ground with a grin of victory.

The avoxes help me to my feet, and I stagger off of the mat to join the other careers. Vista looks pretty grumpy from placing last. Jade and Kennedy just look exhausted.

"You all did extremely well," Colosseus says. "Congratulations to Mr. Sinthra on his victory. Curfew is in ten minutes, so I recommend you return to your rooms. Your mentors are expecting you."


	26. More Trains (And Birds)

**A/N: Here's the afternoon of the first training day. There are only two tribute POVs here. It's not because I want to zip through training as fast as I can, it's just that I'm trying my best to only include tribute POVs where they enhance the story in some way. And there's a secret third POV at the end. You'll see what that has to offer. Thanks for all of your reviews, and please consider leaving one if you can.**

**P.S. I've used this "bird" metaphor at least twice before, but I'm going to use it again because it's a REALLY good one. You'll see what I mean ;)**

* * *

_Ain't no doctor or therapeutic that can take the pain away,_

_The pain's inside._

_And nobody frees you from your body,_

_It's the soul that needs surgery._

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

I used to like talking to Gwyneth. She was friendly enough, at least as friendly as you can be given our situation. Now she's depressing even to look at. She just looks tired and bored. And so, so sad.

The lights of the suite are all switched off. The only light source is the setting sun outside: a fiery-orange circle slowly setting behind a tall mountain in the distance. The sun shines directly on Gwyneth, who is curled up in a ball on a pristine yellow armchair.

The living room is empty apart from the two of us. I should talk to her.

Is she asleep? I don't think so. Her chest is rising and falling too quickly. I open my mouth to say something, then realize she might be faking to avoid a conversation. I won't force her to talk to me.

I stand up as quietly as possible and head over to the balcony. The Capitol is aglow with flashing and twirling lights. Up here, the wind is biting cold, but I can imagine it must be summer warmth down there. Droves of colorful Capitolites rush through the streets like iridescent glitter running through a tube.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. If I can force everything else out of my head, it really is a beautiful day. I try not to think about the training center five floors under my feet, and I try not to think about Gwyneth. But she keeps popping into my head.

"You can't see the stars."

I recognize Gwyneth's voice instantly and move to the side, making room for her to lay her hands on the railing.

She's right. It's already dark enough that a few constellations should be visible. But the sky is just dark, ashy grey.

"Perseus should be right there, at the north end of the sky. And the hydra should be in the far west: the seven-headed serpent creature that Heracles killed with fire."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Have I ever told you how I ended up on the streets?"

"No. Tell me."

And she does. She tells me about the Network, the secret anti-Capitol organization her parents were in. She tells me about going home with the man she recognized as tattling her parents' location to the Capitol. Killing him. And then running away because there were already peacekeepers on her trail.

"He was carrying a book with him when I killed him," Gwyneth says. "A star chart. I don't know why he had it, but I took it from him the split-second before I bolted for my life. I must have read that book a hundred times before I volunteered. I know all the constellations by heart now. I know their stories too."

She stares off to the east horizon, where only a faint sliver of the sun remains. "The ancient Greeks thought the sun was a chariot that the music god Apollo drove across the sky every day. All ancient people saw their heroes in the stars. We do the same thing today. But our heroes are here on earth. You ever think of that?"

I shake my head. Gwyneth can't be more than a year older than me, but her eyes look like the eyes of a wise old woman. It's both fascinating and unnerving.

"I'm going to die, Newt." She says it quietly, with a hint of terrifying acceptance in her voice. "I'm going to die. But I've set things right. I've done my duty. I've made my mark."

I look at the stars again. Then I think of my own heroes. The man in the street who tossed me a warm scarf when I was out late at night after a music recital. My parents, who always closed the window at night when I forgot. My mentor Surge, who always has a glass of cold water ready for me in the morning.

Seeing Gwyneth, all I can think about is a little bird I once saw dirty and tangled in a grate around my ninth birthday. Me and two friends managed to pull him out and clean him off, even though it got our clothes a little dirty.

Time passes. Things change. Man does evil to Man. People rule and people starve. In the grand scheme of the universe, there's a whole lot of cruelty and injustice. But we all have our heroes, I realize. People who keep us moving forward, even when the road looks rough. The universe takes care of all its birds.

* * *

_I wish I found some better sounds no one's ever heard,_

_I wish I found a better voice that sang some better words._

_I wish I found some chords in an order that is new,_

_I wish I didn't have to rhyme every time I sang._

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

I wait until Vista is asleep to slip out of my bed. Even though sweat cakes my forehead, my entire body is cold. My shoes squish over a carpet I'm too numb to feel.

I open the walk-in closet and change into the most normal-looking outfit I can find. Anything that has the Capitol seal on it is sure to give me away. My intent is to look exactly like a normal Capitol kid.

The voice of reason screams in my head as I exit the closet, telling me that this is a terrible idea.

"Shut up," I mutter.

I pause as I pass by Vista's bedroom. I can already hear her soft snores. Good.

A glance at the clock tells me that curfew isn't for ten more minutes. I have ten minutes to get where I need to go. The elevator doors slide open at my slightest touch. I hit the ground level button and feel the elevator zooming downward.

At least thirty kids are already gathered around the train tracks. The tracks run straight through the middle of the training center. The first car passes through at nine o'clock, then they come once every five minutes for the next hour. I watched from my balcony on floor 4 yesterday evening. They stand on the tracks two at a time and the first quitter is the loser.

I slip into the crowd as quietly as I can. Something indescribable buzzes through my veins. Anger, confusion… hatred. Hatred. I hate this. I hate my parents. I hate the Capitol. I hate being controlled.

All I need is to feel in control of myself, just for a moment. Just for one moment.

"Train coming!" an older boy shouts. "Positions!"

The kids' murmuring falls dead silent. The crowd shuffles and morphs. A trill of panic runs through my chest. I have no idea what to do.

"You're new here," a girl spits out. "You can be my partner. Stand behind me and we can get in line together."

She turns to look at me, and I hurriedly look down to hide my face. The last thing I need is for one of these random daredevil teenagers to recognize me as a tribute.

Thinking about it, I'm surprised I could get down here so easily. I guess they assume no tribute could ever have the guts to try and escape in full sight of the entire Capitol.

"First pair, up!" someone shouts.

The first two teenagers, a guy and a girl about seventeen years old, step onto the tracks. The shrill train whistle rings in my ears, a deafening loudness that makes my head pound. At first, I can't see the train. It looms out of the darkness all at once. The guy's face falls with terror, and he jumps to the left, diving out of the train's path. The girl stands her ground for a good second longer before abandoning ship. Her friends pat her on the back. I guess she's moving on to the next round.

I completely loose myself in the scene. Pair after pair of teenagers jumps in front of train after train. One boy jumps out of the way at the last split second. His shoe gets knocked off by the train's metal fender. The crowd oohs, awed as his bravery or some shit.

My partner suddenly shakes my arm, pulling me back to reality. "We're next, dumbo. Get on the tracks."

The voice of reason kicks back up, screaming for me to run back to floor 4 and away from these stupid kids. I tell it to shut the fuck up.

Little murmurs break out in the crowd like little hissing fires. A tall woman breaks through the line of kids waiting for their turn. Talisa. My mentor.

"Dock! What the hell are you doing? Get back here!"

But I'm not listening. I step out onto the tracks. Adrenaline surges through me, making my blood run cold. The train whistle blows loudly. Wind roars around me. My feet shake, but with thrill, not fear. Fear doesn't exist anymore. It's just nerve now.

Talisa catches me in her arms when I jump off of the tracks. The train thunders past a fraction of a second later.

"What the hell were you thinking? WHAT THE HELL?"

"Get off of me, lady," I groan, not regretting a thing.

My entire life has been being yelled at, having orders barked at me, doing everything under a watchful eye. I just needed to feel in control. I just needed to feel in control.

"What the hell, Dock! YOU COULD HAVE DIED! You kids, break this up, or I'll call a peacekeeper on you! Come on, Dock."

She tugs me back into the elevator and smashes button number four hard enough to crack it in half.

"Tell me what you were thinking. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"

I purse my lips and stare at the floor. She can't tell me what to do. Nobody can.

* * *

**A Mutt**

**Most Recent Creation of Head Gamemaker Pontus Timble**

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," a voice says: the voice of my master.

"Good afternoon, Pontus. I hear you'd like to show me one of your new creations."

"That's correct, sir. It is currently confined in this cage, if you would permit me to set it on your desk."

"Of course."

The darkness melts away as my master whips the cloth off of the cage where I am trapped. I bang against the sides of the cage, begging to be freed. There's something wonderful about coming alive.

I do not think, but I know. I know the hot sun of summer. I know the crisp night sky of winter. I know the sound of a human scream, the noise of frantic footsteps, a hot pool of blood.

"It's a feisty one," the man named Mr. President says.

"Yes," my master says. "It looks dangerous, but I do not intend for it to directly harm the tributes in any way. All it can do is torture them through its injections."

"Please explain," says Mr. President.

"It has one pincer attached to the end of its tail. When injected into a human body, the chemicals released target the amygdala, the part of the human brain responsible for emotions like fear and distress. This creates an extremely vivid sensory hallucination that can last anywhere from fifteen seconds to an entire hour based on the depth of the sting."

"How many of these mutts will be in the arena?"

"Just one, Mr. President. It will target two random tributes every day."

Mr. President chuckles. "I love it."


	27. Training Day 2: Wherefore Art Thou?

**A/N: WHERE THE HECKING FRICK HAVE I BEEN?!**

**Sorry for the wait on this one. I just got back from a 9 day long vacation where I didn't write a single word, writer's block has been a pain as usual, I've been a little lazy. I hope the third training day doesn't take this long. Anyway, enjoy Kennedy, Gwyneth, Heather, Midas, Suzuki, Arien, Gary, and Newton :D**

**P.S. I know I haven't established the anti-careers yet. They'll come into play on the third training day. Until then, I'd love to hear your speculations!**

* * *

_Every sound monotone,_

_Every color monochrome._

_Light began to fade,_

_Into the black._

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

"Welcome to your second day of training!" Colosseus says. "I hope you're all well-rested. Today, a lot of you will be tempted to jump to whatever stations you didn't complete yesterday, but I'm here to recommend that you revisit a few of the old stations. These are all skills that need refining and brushing up. None of them can be mastered in a single sitting. Any questions?"

There are none, and then we're free to go.

"So what's the plan?" Midas asks, crossing his arms. Once again, I'm stunned at how hot he his.

"We did enough tormenting yesterday," Vista notes. "Let's just have some fun by ourselves and make the outliers shit their pants."

Gaius nods in agreement. Jade and I lock eyes. "We both second that motion," I say.

"I'm going to spears. They're my specialty," Vista says.

Gaius points toward the sword station, and Jade heads off with him. Now it's just me and Midas.

"You down for some axe throwing?" Midas asks, almost scornfully.

"Of course I'm down," I spit out. "These muscles aren't for nothing."

I'm reminded that he has muscles too. I don't let my stomach feels squiggly. Romance isn't for the games. It just distracts and accomplishes nothing.

_He is really hot though._

"Well, are you coming?"

"Of course."

The axe-throwing station is tucked into a corner of the training room, I guess so the flying axes don't hit anything except the wall. Wouldn't want any tributes decapitated or dismembered before the games. I'm tempted to start with the small axes and work my way up, but Midas goes straight for the largest size, so I follow his lead.

"Eh," the trainer interrupts. "One at a time."

I set my axe down. "Right then. You go first, I guess."

He throws the weapon and lands the blade in the second ring of the target, close enough to the center. I find myself having seized up. I guess I was nervous he would land a perfect bulls-eye and set the bar too high.

_Stop stressing out. You'll be fine._

I step forward, days from the academy rushing back to me. When I was younger, one of the trainers had to hold me by the arm and guide my motions because I could never throw straight enough.

"You sure you can throw that, pretty girl?" Midas taunts.

"Shut up."

I manage to hit the same ring, about half a foot away.

"So basic bitch has some talent after all," he says.

"Take that back."

He crosses his arms. He seems to love crossing his arms.

Sometimes, when I'm not idly fantasizing about being in a relationship with him, I'd really like to punch that guy in the face.

* * *

_I've been waiting on the sunset,_

_Bills on the mindset._

_I can deny they're getting high,_

_Higher than my income._

_My income's breadcrumbs,_

_I've been trying to survive._

* * *

**Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18 / LiveFreeOrDie**

**District 5 Female**

_Thwack._

The end of the spear rattles as it makes contact with the heavy cloth dummy. Hardly batting an eye, I pull the spear out and throw it back to Newt. I can tell he's feeling discouraged.

"I think it's dead," he murmurs.

Eventually, I'd like to be on the other side of things. I've been honing in on my survival skills for years. I'd like to start throwing spears, because I don't have any weapon experience other than basic knife stuff.

"You want to try then?" now Newt looks more than a little peeved.

"Um… maybe in a minute. You should hit the target at least once."

"Gee, thanks."

I try my best not to be rude. It's not like manners were ever important back in District 5. But it feels wrong being too gentle now. We're too deep for that. The death game starts in only a few days.

I pull my hair out of my face and let my eyes wander around the training center. Most of the tributes are hanging out with their district partners. I've noticed James and Trixana from District 7 staying especially close together as they travel around. Dock, Gary, and Arien have also been sticking together. I might remember seeing Edamame with them at one point, but now he's all alone at the other end of the training room, starting a fire by the looks of things.

"Who are you staring at?"

Oh shit. The careers.

"N… nothing," I stammer, my dignity suddenly melting away. Newt hasn't thrown the spear yet. Just as he begins to release it, he freezes mid-stride.

We need to leave. Right now.

"Newt," I hiss, as discreetly as I can. "Let's go…"

"Not so fast," Midas says.

There might be a moment where I think about staying and arguing with the pack, but the voice of reason tells me that's no good. It's our best bet to get away from them as quickly as possible.

"Talk to you later," I say, trying not to stammer. "Come on, Newt. We've spent enough time here."

"We could have impressed them," Newt whispers once we're a safe distance away.

"Or made fools of ourselves. And besides, you don't want to impress them. It puts a target on your back. Remember Ella Vaird from last year?"

Newt nods wordlessly. "What's next on the agenda?"

"Swords, I guess."

"What about survival stations?"

"I guess we could go to edible plants or something. I'm already good with those, though. It'd be pretty much for you."

"We could split up," Newt suggests.

"No. We need to stick together."

"Alright, then."

I'll admit it's a lot more engaging than I expected. There are a lot of plants that don't grow in District 5. I can make pretty good guesses for most of them based on the colors and shapes of the leaves, but the realization sets in that I still have a lot to learn.

"You want to stay for another round?" the trainer asks.

Newt says yes, and I decide to nod. At least this keeps us out of the careers' way.

* * *

_All I wanna do is what I do well,_

_Ain't a gambler but honey I'd put money on myself._

_All I wanna do is bottle it to sell,_

'_Cause my brand does vainglorious much better for your health._

* * *

**Heather Lotus, 18 / CandleFire45**

**District 12 Female**

Water purification has got to be the single most depressing station in the entire training center. It's the smallest, for one thing. There's no way more than three people could sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the table. Then there's the whole concept. It's an unimpressive skill. So you can pick out some pills and stir some water around. Real sexy, I know.

Surprisingly, there's already somebody at the station. At first I thought myself to be relatively approachable. But the others have been avoiding me as of late, so I figure my only shot at landing an ally is to look for them myself.

"How's it going?" I ask.

The girl momentarily glances up from her glass of water. "It's so murky. And dark. And cold."

"Pretty much like my soul," I joke.

"You don't even know." She rolls her eyes. "Anyway. It's simply a marvelous day, isn't it?" The girl pauses, and then smiles. "What's your name?"

"Heather," I say.

"Fawn. Anyway, you want a glass?"

There's this ugly metal machine that pours the water for me. I get to choose what to add into the water. I add a fair helping of dirt, some little wood pieces, even some artificial debris. Then the machine spins and churns, and a hideous black potion spurts into the cup.

I pick it up and give it a sniff. It smells like mud and sadness. I'm supposed to run it through a strainer first, I guess. Fawn hands me a strainer, and I realize she's been watching me this entire time. I decide I have to say something, just to break the silence.

"What've you been up to?"

"Same old, same old," Fawn says. "Fire starting. A bit of knife stuff. You?"

"A lot of edible bugs. Some spear stuff."

"Talked to anybody?" she asks.

I shake the strainer, letting the last few drops fall down into the second cup. "Just the girls from 9, you know, the twins? But there wasn't anything there. We only said a few words."

I wonder if there's anything here. No magic glow fills the room, but something tells me Fawn would be a good partner for the arena. I wonder if she feels the same way.

* * *

_Daddy works a long day,_

_He'll be coming home late, he's coming home late._

_And he's bringing me a surprise,_

'_Cause dinners' in the kitchen and it's packed in ice._

* * *

**Midas Sinthra, 18 / Darkdemon27**

**District 1 Male**

After I finish the hatchet station, I head over to the spear station with Vista. She's just finished something with Jade, so this is the start of a new round: we can compete against each other if we want.

I can feel several pairs of eyes on me: gamemakers. I try not to glance upward at them: that's undeliberate and unprofessional. Not like there's anything "professional" about the games. It's a fucking death match. But hey, you've gotta impress the gamemakers beforehand, get them to like you before they take control. It helps.

The way I've been treating Kennedy is controlling and pretty ass-ish, I'll admit. I might relent a little with her tomorrow. At this stage, all of us are testing each other. I want to see how she reacts to sudden changes. I want to see if she gets confused or mad.

Regardless of what the others may say, I do plan to rise to the role of pack leader. Gaius is the only competition, or at least he would be if he could speak. His handicap will weigh him down significantly. I don't think I should have trouble snatching the #1 ranking.

It's been thirteen years since the ranking system was implemented. Along with our training scores, each of us is given a number from one to twenty-four. The strongest tribute is number one. In the older games, there were huge arguments about who would be pack leader. Arguments where teeth got knocked out. Now, whoever gets the first ranking takes the role. No questions asked.

"What's up with that Kennedy girl?" Vista whispers. As we walk, our tennis shoes squeak over the clean floor tile.

"Other than being a basic bitch? What do you mean?"

"Have you noticed what she does when she's alone?" Vista says. "She whispers to herself. She points at things. I don't think she's crazy, but… she's not playing with a full deck of cards. She could be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" I try to fashion a mental picture of her. "There's no way she's dangerous. Maybe she's pretending, just to stand out."

Vista purses her lips. "I doubt it. She seems pretty genuine."

There's a trainer at the ready as soon as we reach the spear station. He hands us each a spear and holds us how to hold it, even though we already know.

"Can we skip the tutorial?" Vista shouts.

"Yes," the trainer says, looking slightly taken aback. "Go right ahead."

We throw our spears in unison. Hers lands slightly closer to the target point. A few avoxes retrieve them and slide them back to us, and we throw again.

I'll admit Vista is a more vicious opponent than I originally thought. She has near-perfect aim, even if her posture isn't the best.

"You're aiming way too far to the left," Vista scowls. When we careers are competing, we have mutual permission to talk shit about each other. Otherwise, we can be pretty friendly, even if we do make all of the outliers run for the hills.

"Nobody asked you. Shut up."

"Just trying to help." She rolls her eyes.

I end up pulling out the win by a small margin. "But I could totally school you with a different weapon," I add.

She raises one eyebrow, which is a challenge all by itself. "I doubt it. Swords are next. I'll show you what the academy has done for me."

"Oh, fuck off." But I do want to see what she can do, so I decide to stick with her. I need to know the strengths and weaknesses of every other career if I want to outlast them all.

* * *

_This is me praying this was the very first page,_

_Not where the story line ends._

_My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again._

_These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon._

_I was enchanted to meet you._

_Please don't be in love with someone else. Please don't have somebody waiting on you._

* * *

**Suzuki Nox, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 6 Female**

Tire-riding is the only thing I'm really good at. I can run on top of one for miles. Peugeot and I used to do it together whenever Ms. Williams disappeared.

The only thing I feel as I look around the training center is intimidation. There are no tires here. There's nothing here that I'm good at. There's no way I could really hold a sword. And it isn't like my mind can run quickly enough to keep a fire going.

I end up visiting the knife station, which is weirdly empty. People say you can learn a knife quicker than any weapon.

Apollo told me it's the best weapon to learn if you're short on time. Am I short on time? I have two days.

Then I remember the third training day is only six hours long: it's four hours shorter to make room for the private sessions. I only have one and a half days.

I start off with just one knife, but it puts me off balance, and I keep swinging too far to one side. So I pick up a second one. That isn't much easier, but I manage to make a feet deep gashes in the target.

"You're holding it upside down," a trainer says, moving toward me. "Your four fingers fit into the curve. Your thumb wraps around."

I try not to be embarrassed, but I notice a few of the others staring, and my face gets hot.

I follow the trainer's tips as best I can, but I can never seem to gain accuracy. Tears well up in my eyes as the minutes turn into hours.

I just want to disappear under my warm blankets on floor 6. Or better yet, I want a little black hole to appear in the ground that I can crawl into. The tears start dripping down, and I drop my arms at my sides. My hands are covered in blisters, and a few of my fingers are actually bleeding. The feeling of hopelessness is like an actual knife in my gut.

An avox rushes in and bandages up my hands. Something about his touch makes me feel better: the touch of somebody who doesn't want to kill me.

"You need a short break," the trainer says. I nod my head in agreement and take a seat on the nearest bench.

I try my best to fight the tears. Then I notice the careers pointing, and everything bursts out of me, like a flood of discouragement breaking the mental dam I've reinforced with my weak willpower.

I guess my only hope is to find an ally. Someone who can do all the fighting while I do all the hiding.

* * *

_Well you can cut a rug,_

_Watching you's the only drug I need,_

_So gangsta, I'm so thug,_

_You're the only one I'm dreaming of._

* * *

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

_Two households, both alike in dignity,_

_In fair Verona, where we lay our scene._

_Where ancient grudge break to new mutiny;_

_Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean._

I turn the monologue over and over in my mind as I wander away from Dock and Gary. We don't necessarily split up in an organized way. There isn't a schedule or anything. But they've been wearing me down lately: Dock with his cocky remarks and Gary with his lame puns.

_Why can't you starve in the desert? Because of the sand which is there!_

Come on. At least Mercutio's puns were good.

I'm surprised by how long it takes me to pick a station. My mind instantly jumps to the survival stations, but the three of us spent plenty of time there yesterday. Well, the four of us, because Edamame was part of our group.

Thinking about it, I haven't seen Edamame around. I see his district partner Fawn at the water purifying station with Heather from District 12, and that reminds me I haven't spent much time in the back corner of the training center. There's too much clutter for me to see what's going on back there, so I decide to head over and take a peek.

There are a few stations back here: another fire-starting area, a jungle gym, and a spear throwing range. Spears might not be the worst idea.

A trainer rushes over. "You want to try spears?"

"I guess so."

I guess I was expecting the trainer to give me instructions, but he sort of just sits there while I grab a spear and start throwing. Maybe he's only supposed to give me instructions if I ask.

A little flicker of immature brashness flares up inside of me. I'm tempted to throw the spear without his help, hit the bull's-eye, and stroll out of the trainer center amid fireworks and a shower of flowers. But then I realize how many gamemakers are watching, and I decide to get some advice.

"Can you, uh, help me out?"

"Sure." He closes his hands around mine. "First of all: don't close one eye. That's a myth. It might let you see better, but you need the depth perception of both eyes to get any kind of accuracy."

I nod. "Got it."

"Let me see what you got. I'll tell you what you can improve on."

From the moment I lift the spear into the air, the trainer shakes his head. The thought suddenly strikes me that I have literally no idea how to do this. I throw and miss the target by at least five feet. A gamemaker lets out a cough that sound suspiciously like a laugh.

"Kid, your skills could use some improving."

I purse my lips. I knew this was coming.

"First of all, don't look around while you throw it. I know it's tempting: there's a lot of things to hear and see in this place. There will be even more in the arena. You can't let anything distract you."

"Also. You can't just throw the spear. You have to get a running start and then let it go. It needs momentum, not just force. If you toss it willy-nilly, it'll fly off course."

He says a lot of other things while I slowly turn into a skeleton. "Try again," he says after a million years. "And remember everything I said."

My second shot isn't any better than my first, but the trainer says I'm improving, even if it's extremely slowly. Before my third shot, I turn my head briefly around to see what Dock and Gary are doing. But then the trainer stamps his foot, reminding me to stay focused.

That's one thing Bryndle and I have in common. We can't stay focused. Maybe it's a District 10 thing.

* * *

_Seven forty-five we're drivin' on the highway,_

_Cruisin' so fast, I want time to fly._

_Fun, fun, think about fun,_

_You know what it is._

* * *

**Gary Redwire, 13 / AlexFalTon**

**District 8 Male**

I'm secretly relieved when Arien wanders away. It's hard not to get fed up with all of his _thou_s and _thee_s and _wherefore art thou_s. I don't say anything out loud, because he really is a good friend. But I just think he should shut his mouth sometimes.

Really, I shouldn't be talking. I recited the first two lines of a random poem at the reaping, and they weren't even correct.

Dock is much less secretive about his distaste. Ever since his incident yesterday evening, he's been alive with a newfound sort of energy. He doesn't seem depressed or down anymore. He feels more… alive. That word again.

I asked him about it earlier. "I know I'm in control now," he said.

"So where should we go now?" I ask. "We can do one of the double stations now that Arien is away."

"Better make the best use of them, before he comes back," Dock scowls. He always scowls, no matter what form he's in. "Let's do shelter-building."

Our sneakers squeak over the slick tile floor of the training center while we walk. Some paranoid part of my brain makes me think everyone can hear us, but the noise is quickly overshadowed by the loud banging, stomping, and thwacking coming from all over the training room.

"Have you finished that poem yet?" Dock asks.

"I've been thinking about it. I've created a few more verses. But I don't think it'll ever be finished."

He raises his eyebrows.

_I look at the stars at night, and I see a thousand different worlds._

_Places I will never visit, things I will never see._

_Maybe spots where dreams come true, where nightmares become reality,_

_Where I can escape the cold, harsh_

_Light of_

_Reality._

_But I will still never visit them._

"Wow. That was deep, and I'm not even fourteen," Dock says.

"You know, Arien would put it in iambic pentameter."

"Well, Arien's not here. Now pick up the pace, or one of the outliers will beat us to shelter-building."

The shelter building-station is pretty underwhelming. At first sight, it's similar to fire-starting: a large metal case, like a sandbox, filled with airy, dark dirt. Then you notice everything piled into tin buckets: logs, branches, leaves, twine, knives.

"What's that weird rope in the ceiling?" I ask.

A trainer answers, startling me. "It's a hose that creates rain. See the little holes punched into it? You can test out your shelter if you want."

"Well, we have to build something first," Dock says, and once again I realize how much energy he has. "Come on, Gary. Let's start placing the branches."

The first twenty minutes go well. A bit too well. We lay long branches in an alternating pattern until the structure is a few feet tall. Then my foot gets caught on the corner of the metal box, and I fall straight onto one of the walls. The weight of my falling body causes at least three of the branches to snap in half.

"What the hell was that?" Dock demands.

"Gravity."

I groan, standing up. A few lines of blood drip down my arm. Avoxes rush in and bandage it up, then disappear just as quickly as they entered.

Thirty more minutes pass as we build the walls higher and higher. There aren't any huge incidents, just minor mishaps.

"I recommend you start building the roof," the trainer says. "There's plenty of room for the both of you to fit inside that thing."

The both of us get more and more frustrated as we start building the roof. The roof is much harder to build than the walls because you have to give it strength at the edges to keep it from buckling under its own slacking weight.

"You know what this station teaches you?" the trainer asks.

"How to build shelter?"

He shakes his head. "How to work together. Now get inside, you two. I'll turn on the hose."

It goes better than I expected. Dock steps through a small flap in the roof, and I follow him inside. I press lightly against the wall and find it stands strong against the slight force.

"Do you think the ceiling will keep the water out?" I ask.

"Yeah," he responds, but he sounds a little uncertain.

The pitter-patter of rain falling on the leaf ceiling is nerve-wracking. Then water starts dripping through, mostly at the edges. The two of us stay pretty dry.

"You're shivering," the trainer notes as I step out of the shelter. "Rain does that. Even if it's warm. Take care. Cover yourself with dirt if you have to. Cold is an extremely lethal killer."

"Do we get to destroy it now?" I ask.

The trainer smiles a little. "Sure. Knock yourselves out."

Dock makes the first kick, blowing out the entire front wall and sending the roof cascading and untangling. I'm tempted to dive, but then I remember the bloody spots on my arm. I don't want any more injury, so I just kick the back wall. The two side walls crash in. The cloud of dust rises up, then clears.

"Great job," the trainer says. "You're dismissed."

I head off to look for Arien, leaving Dock by himself. I have no doubt he'll be a good ally in the arena, but for now I just need some time away from him.

* * *

_When you're alone all by yourself,_

_And you're lying in your bed._

_Reflection stares right into you,_

_Are you happy with yourself?_

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

Edamame lifts the axe by the tip of the handle, so the blade is suspended in the air.

"That's way too heavy to throw," I say.

"Yeah. We don't want you taking anyone's head off," Gwyneth adds. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath.

"I'm not going to hurt anyone," he says. I can tell he's starting to get defensive. That happens to tributes, when they've been searching for good allies for so long that frustration starts building. Like carbonation against a cork.

I try to send some kind of eye signal to Gwyneth, telling her to keep quiet. We shouldn't push Edamame too hard.

Maybe I'm being too gentle. But I think the 11 kid needs a break.

"Let me have a turn," I say, taking the axe from him. His shoulders lift with relief.

"That still isn't safe to throw," Gwyneth advises. "Try going up to the target and striking."

I turn to the trainer for his opinion, but he doesn't seem to be paying attention. I guess the trainers sort of zone out whenever there's a group bigger than two. Maybe they expect us to correct each other's mistakes, or teach each other, or something.

I step forward and find myself shaking. I can't tell if it's from the weight or the axe or from nerves. I'm definitely nervous. I've been shaking more than usual lately: anxiety, Surge tells me. Of course I'm anxious. This isn't just a big violin recital, this is a death game.

I bury the axe into the wooden target and land about three inches from the bull's-eye. The trainer, who must have perked up at the noise of the blade hitting the wood, tells me to try hitting the same mark again. That goes less well.

Edamame smiles a little. "At least you hit the target again?"

Gwyneth takes the axe next. "The weight of the blade is a party pooper," I advise. "Swing it a few times before you strike."

"Party pooper?" Gwyneth repeats. "We're about to go into a death match. You can say bitch."

"I don't swear." Swearing is a sign of immaturity.

She shakes her head once and then heads to the target, and the realization sets in that I'm being too resistant to change. Surge told me I need to adapt to last in the arena.

"Bitch," I whisper. It feels weird in my mouth. "Bitch."

A giggle tumbles from my lips. I guess I am immature.


	28. The Next Night

**A/N: Hello! Thanks again for all of your reviews, they're very meaningful. Not much to say about this one, except I hope you enjoy these POVs from Gaius, Neveah, and James. Training Day 3 is next, then private sessions, then training scores. We're so close!**

* * *

_If you're still alive,_

_My regrets are few._

_If my life is mine,_

_What shouldn't I do?_

_I get wherever I'm going,_

_I get whatever I need._

_While my blood's still flowing,_

_And my heart's still beating like a hammer._

_Beating like a hammer._

* * *

**Gaius Alabaster, 18 / Writer207**

**District 2 Male**

I'm surprised by how bored I feel as the night ticks on. Today was filled with so much moving around, so much pressing forward. Now that everything is still and silent, something feels off.

I get up off of the edge of the bed and walk to the door, pausing with my fingers wrapped around the handle. I hear Enobaria and Kennedy talking on the other side, just faint voices muffled by the door. I don't want to interfere: we careers may be ruthless, but we do have unwritten rules. Mentor-tribute time is sacred. No interrupting.

Then I realize how unmatched Enobaria and Kennedy really are. I'll admit my district partner is talented, but it's not like she has nearly as much physical prowess as some other tributes of years past.

Enobaria won by tearing some poor girl's throat out. I wonder how I'll manage to snatch the victor title. Then I remember Victor's advice. _Long-term plans can be just as harmful as helpful. Things change rapidly in the games; your plan could unravel instantly, and you can't let that take you off guard._

I decide that even thinking about the far future is a bad idea. Now, I should be thinking about my private session and maybe my interview. My stomach growls. I can't stay in this stupid room forever.

Both them are already staring at me when I walk out. I raise an eyebrow.

"You turned the handle, held it there for like a minute, then opened the door." Kennedy smirks a little. "Scared of us?"

There's one rude gesture that nobody needs to know sign language to understand. I'm worried about Enobaria screaming, saying how-dare-you-use-that-rude-gesture-here-violence-is-for-the-arena. That was the attitude of everyone at the academy. But Enobaria is chill enough to give me nothing but a little smile.

I head over to the fridge. The double doors each hold several rows of shelves holding jars of covered jelly and flavoring and Snow knows what else. I find a bit of the purple soup I remember from the training center and unsnap the lid.

The soup is freezing-cold, but the flavor is so strong it's impossible to feel the temperature. My face crinkles up, and I shiver as it runs down my throat.

I figure it's rude to drink straight from the bowl. Even though Enobaria and Kennedy are far away, I'm sure I have plenty of unseen company through the hidden cameras. I should remember my manners for them.

I find myself thinking about training as I quietly eat the soup. Pretty much all careers have a specific victor they try to model themselves after. The girls from 1 stalk Organdy on social media to perfectly replicate her skin care routine, the boys from 4 try to get tan like Finnick. Most careers try to duplicate their idols' private sessions as much as possible.

I can't really think of any one victor I want to be like. Noble is one of the only career victors cool enough to hold a real friendship with. I guess Tarquinius?

Maybe it's better to forge my own path. Break the mold a little.

I finish the soup and hand it to one of the avoxes waiting nearby. I don't have a very detailed plan at all. I'll just keep pressing forward: straight and fast, unrelenting until I reach the end of the long tunnel.

* * *

_And I care about you darling,_

_And I care about you._

'_Cause I care about you,_

_More than anyone else._

_Things are now always,_

_Things are now always,_

_How they seem._

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

Heaven has been oddly distant as of late. I've literally shared a body with her for seventeen years; I should ask her what's wrong. But I know what's wrong.

Or rather, I don't know. Neither of us knows how this is going to work. A pair of conjoined twins has never entered the Hunger Games in the past. There are a lot of technical and moral dilemmas on the gamemakers' parts this year. It might be easier for them to just kill us. Keep us from causing any problems.

It must be midnight when I decide that we have to discuss this. We might not have much, but we have each other. I can't lose her.

"This is really tough," I note.

"You can say that again." Heaven runs her hand through her hair.

It's hard to see her through the darkness. A small amount of moonlight trickles in through the gap in the curtains: just enough to illuminate her left eye. Hers are green. Mine are blue.

Heaven sighs. "I'm just so confused. I feel like I'm dangling off of some kind of cliff, and I'm screaming for help, and people are walking past me and just ignoring me. I don't have anyone."

"You have me."

"Of course. But all you're doing is hanging there with me. We're both equally helpless. It's really frustrating."

I start to say something about how every tribute goes through this, but that's stupid. We're the only ones like us.

I'm desperate to come up with a logical solution. I let out an audible sigh of relief when one lands in my head. "We need to look at some other twins that have gone into the games. We need to see how they've handled things."

I turn on the reading light and grab a thick volume off of the nearest shelf. _Honor and Sacrifice: A History of Panem through the Hunger Games._

I turn to the index and search for the word "twin". Then I turn to page 395: List of Twins. Heaven leans in as I begin to read the list aloud:

_5th Hunger Games: Misty and Dustin Sablone (District 12)_

_16th Hunger Games: Beatrice and Bentley Toland (District 6)_

_26th Hunger Games: Juliet and Romeo Frondel (District 1)_

_59th Hunger Games: Tidessa and Tidello Bowman (District 4)_

_72nd Hunger Games: Sequoia and Maple Canopies (District 7)_

_105th Hunger Games: Ophelia and Laertes Canterbury (District 2)_

"What about Cashmere and Gloss?" Heaven asks.

"I think this only lists the pairs that have gone into the same games," I say. "We don't have a lot to work off of."

"Well, a twin hasn't won since the sixteenth games, which is promising," Heaven says. "Anyway. I'm pretty sure Misty and Dustin lived in a cave and survived off of edible moss? Beatrice and Bentley lived in a cave too. I'm starting to see a trend."

I re-read the next pair. "Romeo and Juliet? I don't remember them. Tidessa and Tidello neither. I'm pretty sure Sequoia and Maple… one of them died trying to save the other, right? That was a forest arena. I don't really remember."

It's sad, how easily we're likely to be forgotten if we don't make it out of the arena.

"We were nine when Ophelia and Laertes went into the games," Heaven says. "They sucked. And I'm pretty sure their uncle sucked when he went into the games. I guess it ran in the family."

"Well, this hasn't accomplished anything," I say, snapping the book shut. "Live in a cave and don't suck. I guess that's all we can take away."

"We need to go to sleep. We need our energy. And I can't really sleep unless you try to as well."

It took our parents at least a year to explain this to us. Our circulatory, blood systems, are connected, so one of us can't calm down enough to sleep by ourselves. We both have to relax at the same time or the other sister's wakefulness will keep us up.

I turn the light back off. "Good night."

"Good night."

I realize for the first time how sleepy I actually am. Maybe we'll actually manage to get some sleep tonight.

* * *

_I'll face myself,_

_To cross out what I've become._

_Erase myself,_

_And let go of what I've done._

* * *

**James Smith, 17 / TheProtectorOfHim**

**District 7 Male**

I try to be optimistic about things. The problem is that there isn't really a whole lot to be optimistic about. We're being thrown into a death game in just a few short days and there's no changing that. That kind of trumps all of the positives.

I decide to resort to thinking logically because I'm so emotionally drained. These past few days have been exhausting, and thoughts of what's to come exhaust me even more. But I force myself to think. I can't give up thinking.

Planning would be easier with Trixana here, but she's sleeping, and I don't want to wake her up. How will we handle the bloodbath? We can't run for our lives. A bloodbath deserter hasn't won in decades. The problem most tributes face is racing in to grab one item and being more and more tempted to get closer to the cornucopia, just to spot something else and get even closer.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

I recognize her voice without even looking up. "Yeah. Want to sit?"

I move to the side and make room for her on the edge of the bed. The room is pitch-black now, a heavy kind of black that's terrifying rather than relaxing.

There's a long silence, I guess because neither of us knows what to say.

"At least we have each other," Trixana says. "That's more than some of the other tributes can say."

"We have to focus on the medium-sized alliances if we want to win," I blurt out. "They're going to be the most dangerous. We can't win by hiding and hoping everyone else dies off."

Trixana shifts, seeming a little peeved. "Sorry," I say. "It's on the brain."

She shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. It's just… it's so scary. Being treated like some kind of lab rat for their entertainment. I have friends, James. I have a family. I have a dad I want to see some day. It's just scary how quickly that can all disappear. Death is scary. I'm so scared." Her voice quivers.

"Maybe you can tell me more about your father?"

She shivers again. "Not here. Not in the dark."

"We'd better try to get to sleep again." I start to lie back down. "Good night."

"Good night."

I know the second my head hits the pillow that I won't be sleeping a wink tonight.


	29. Training Day 3, Part 1

**A/N: Yeah, this is just part 1, with four POVs. The last four tributes with have their POV in part 2. I had half of this written up and didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer for the chapter. Hope you enjoy, and please review if you can :D**

* * *

_The soul's escaping,_

_Through this hole that is gaping._

_The world is mine for the taking._

_Make me king, as we move toward a new world order._

_A normal life is boring,_

_But super stardom's close to post mortar._

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

The amount of freedom we're granted here is staggering. Sure, we're locked in a thirteen-floor building that serves as little more than a cage to keep us in before we're tossed into the snake pit. But that can almost be overlooked when there are so many weapons to learn, so many foods to try.

I'd say so many people to meet, but I don't want to get too well acquainted with anybody except my close allies. The least moral dilemmas here, the better.

The four of us dabbled with letting James and Trixana in, but that seriously pissed off Monita and Bryndle. They said four anti-careers is enough, and I guess I have to agree. Anyway, James and Trixana are pretty alright by themselves.

I know I should think of that as a bad thing, but I can't seem to let go of all of my morals just yet. I keep finding myself hoping for the others' safety and survival. Gray told me I'm not fit for a dog-eat-dog world. I can't really say I disagree.

The tributes shuffle into the training room pretty quickly. We're all professionals now: well, most of us, at least. A few of the smaller tributes, Arien, Suzuki, and maybe Gary, are still crying and shaking. I turn my heads away from them as quickly as I can. I can't afford to feel sympathy anymore. The stakes are too high.

"Welcome to your third and final day of training!" Colosseus shouts. "As you all know, your schedule is shortened by approximately six hours to make room for your private sessions. That means you have only four hours in the training room today."

"Your stylists call the last fifteen minutes of application time 'last looks', when they hurriedly put on the finishing touches of your outfit. I'd like you all to treat this time like your own last looks. Polish a few of your more focused skills, but try to get around as much as possible. Try that one station you've been meaning to since Day 1. As for whether it's too late to make friends: I'll leave that up to you. Good luck. You are dismissed."

The crowd of tributes scatters almost immediately, and the stations quickly fill.

"Hurry! Let's grab the swords!" Monita says, already sprinting.

We claim the sword station, narrowly beating out Fawn and Heather, who growl and turn away.

"You've been here before," the trainer notes. "Would you like any further instructions?"

We shake our heads. "Alright," the trainer says. "I recommend you pair up at first. You can switch partners later if you want."

Monita and Bryndle grab swords, and I pair up with Gray. The swords are much lighter than I remember them being yesterday. I guess that's a good thing.

Monita and Bryndle clash, and Gray lunges unexpectedly. I barely have time to jump out of the way. Remembering the advice I was given yesterday, I move even farther to the right, then prod at his left while he's disoriented.

"Nice one," Gray admits, then proceeds to stab the fake blade into my chest to an almost painful extent. I stumble backward, winded, trying to swing with my sword even though black spots dot my vision.

"You're dead," he says, a smile seated deep on his face.

The next moment, Bryndle falls down and lands on her ass right next to me. "Looks like I'm not the only pathetic sword fighter here." She purses her lips.

"I don't think I'm that bad," I murmur, pushing myself back to my feet. "Am I that bad?"

"No," the trainer chimes in. "You just need practice."

* * *

_Here's your ticket, pack your bag,_

_Time for jumpin' overboard._

_Transportation is here,_

_Close enough but not too far._

_Maybe you know where you are,_

_Fighting fire with fire._

* * *

**Bernie Tropello, 16 / 2017tnt**

**District 3 Male**

The only thing I can feel is hatred as I kneel down at the shelter-building station and get to work. Something freezing cold is lodged in my gut, and every single time another tribute crosses my path I feel like screaming. I hate every single thing in the entire fucking world right now. I might as well die right now, but they would find some way to keep me just alive enough to go to my private session and then my interview and then the arena.

"Are you new here?" the trainer asks, leaning down.

"Fuck off."

"Okay."

I really want to punch him in the face, but there are peacekeepers watching, and I realize they're actually watching me, and I realize there are a few other tributes probably watching me, and my eyes start to get wet with tears.

I hate this so much. I'd really like to run back up to floor 3 and lie under the blankets all day. Or better yet, I'd like to die right fucking now.

I give up trying to hide my tears after about five seconds. I read the building instructions on the wall, but I see them with eyes that aren't mine. The hands that stack the branches on top of one another aren't mine anymore.

Maybe I'm gone already, only with my brain and heart still working.

I finish the shelter after an hour, I don't know. Then the trainer asks if I want to test the sprinklers, and I say yes, and I crawl inside, and little drops of water start falling on my ceiling, and then they drip through and land on my back.

I stay in there, in the cold darkness and silence, for a really, really long time.

* * *

_The inter realm of light,_

_Has you tip-toed and pinning all your hopes_

_On the top dog of dreams._

_You're not alone in this,_

_The poly fil away looks strong in the weakness._

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

"How do you feel about cardiovascular work?" I ask.

"I guess we could try it," Heaven says. "But I don't think we can get much out of the stations they have set up. Given our, you know, predicament."

"Yeah," I say. "Let's just try it out. If we aren't getting anything out of it, at least we tried."

The track winds around the entire perimeter of the training center. The trainer gives us special shoes to change into, then lets us start running without any instructions.

It's not like we've never tried running, but we aren't very good at it. Coordinating two legs isn't hard. It's a lot more difficult than you would think to run when one leg isn't your own.

We're quickly sweating. I put my hand to my chest, feeling my heart pounding. "Whatever… this is meant to teach us… I don't think it's working."

"We need to slow down," Heaven says, and I'm more than happy to match her pace. We stumble a little while slowing down, but get back into the groove of things pretty quickly.

"When was the last time we ran?" Heaven asks.

"I don't remember," I say. "Maybe when the big shelf of beer bottles toppled over?"

"Ah. I'm never going to forget that. It was a miracle we got out of the way fast enough."

I remember that night pretty clearly. There were tiny shards of broken glass twenty feet away. All of the drunks in the next room had their own delusions of where the crashing noise had come from. Some of their drunk explanation were admittedly pretty amusing.

"It's kind of a miracle we've survived this long," I murmur. "It's kind of a miracle we got to live at all. We're a miracle."

Heaven thinks about that for a while. "Yeah. I guess we are a miracle."

* * *

_It's nothing dangerous, I feel no pain,_

_I've got to ch-ch-change._

_You know you got it when you're going insane,_

_It makes a grown man cryin', cryin'._

_Won't you make my bed?_

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

When Midas suggests we run through the spear station again, I don't resist. As careers, standing out is important, but so is blending in at certain times. I don't want them to think of me as someone who disagrees. It can't be until the end game that whoever's left turns on one another and does whatever they can to pick their way out of the arena.

Midas must notice Kennedy and I lagging behind, though, because he sneers. "You little girls coming?"

"I'll show you," Kennedy murmurs, and I think she's about to punch him. But she takes a deep breath, looking like something's come over her, and turns toward me. "Come on, Jade." And she does sound a tiny bit friendly.

Midas and Gaius instantly pair up for the first duel, so I land in a trio with Kennedy and Vista. The trainer interjects, suggesting for one of us to stand on the sidelines for the time being to make things neater. I know in an instant that Kennedy and Vista aren't budging, so I smile a little and step aside.

I don't want to come off as weak-willed, but I don't want the others to get mad at me either. This is the best bet.

I find myself watching the duel between Kennedy and Vista more than the one between Gaius and Midas. Vista instantly gets the upper hand, surprising Kennedy almost enough to make her stumble, but she blinks hard and jabs hard enough to make Vista step back. That's all she needs to take her down, and Kennedy presses the blunt point of the spear lightly onto the 4 girl's chest.

Vista gets to her feet, looking a little grumpy. A few moments later, Midas manages to disarm Gaius.

I'm pretty sure this is supposed to start a complete new round, but Midas and Kennedy want to fight things out to determine the grand victor. That duel ends surprisingly quickly, with Midas kicking Kennedy in the knee hard enough to make her fall over.

"That's cheating," Kennedy mutters, with the point of Midas' spear touching her gut.

"There's no such thing as cheating in the games," he mutters. He says something else too, but Kennedy shuffles back to her feet, and I can't hear it.

There is such a thing as cheating in the games. Diamond cheated. Haymitch cheated. Struve cheated. But I decide it's best to keep quiet.

The station continues for a torturously long time. I jump in for round two, with Midas grudgingly stepping out at the trainer's request. The total score board appears in the form of a shimmering holograph after an hour, once everyone has had the opportunity to fight everyone else.

Midas is first. No surprises there. Then Vista. Gaius is third, then Kennedy, then me.

I try not to let it bother me, but something black and prickly settles in my gut. Winning might not be as easy as I thought.


	30. Training Day 3, Part 2

**A/N: Training is finally over! Hallelujah! Not much to say about the chapter itself, except that I hope you enjoy! And also, I'm starting to ship James and Trixana, even though James is gay, like what? I'm going to do something a little bit unique for private sessions, which I hope will give you guys a little more insight into every tribute. You'll see what I mean next chapter. Until then, happy reading! :D**

* * *

_I miss your tan skin, your sweet smile,_

_So good to me, so right,_

_And how you held me in your arms that September night,_

_The first time you ever saw me cry._

_Maybe this is wishful thinking, probably mindless dreaming,_

_But if we loved again I swear I'd love you right._

_I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't._

_So if the chain is on your door, I understand._

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie**

**District 11 Female**

"Well, forget her," Heather mutters as Suzuki walks away with her head down.

"I feel a little bad for her," I admit. "But she's getting desperate. I've seen her walk around to everybody. There's no way we can let her be our ally."

That gets Heather thinking. "Hmmm…" she hums, resting her chin in her hand. "Allying with her might not be the worst idea. The Capitol will love it. We'll be the cutest group of three little girls ever. When she inevitably dies a tragic death, it isn't our fault."

I shake my head. "No. All she'll do is drag us down. And what if she does survive longer than we anticipate? We can't just abandon her to die. She's so small and innocent that the Capitol would hate us. It would soil our reputation."

Heather flings the first throwing knife into the target, nodding. "I guess you're right. And besides, I like it with just the two of us."

I throw my own knife, watching it soar along its path before hitting the target. I've gotten good at all kinds of throwing lately: spears and knives mostly. We tried out darts yesterday, but I just wasn't feeling them.

Heather fires another knife at the target, and the sound echoes around the room for several seconds. "Notice how quiet it is in here? All of the weaker tributes are thinking. They're probably terrified. Private sessions are in less than six."

"I've been thinking a little about private sessions myself," I say. "You know, throwing knives might not be the bad idea. Any throwing skill is impressive, but I know my form isn't the best."

"It's not," Heather agrees, and I know her well enough already that this isn't offensive. "Spears might be a better bet."

"I can always do a mix of both," I suggest, throwing another knife.

"Sure you can. But doing one thing well is better than doing two things averagely," Heather says. "I'm thinking about daggers, because I'm not the most wicked shot. The only reason I can use daggers so well is because they're so easy."

"The gamemakers will see right through that," I suggest, and while Heather talks about her plans, I find myself thinking about my own private sessions. I'll have literally this entire training room to myself .Will I be able to bear the pressure?

I think back to the first grade school play. I was a fairy, but I was so scared that I just cried on stage in front of everybody. This is like stage fright, but a hundred times worse. It's stage mortification. The fear of death on a stage.

"Are they giving us lunch today?" Heather asks.

As if on cue, the loud lunch bell rings. The twenty-four of us walk slowly over to the tables, more slowly than ever. By this point, we have our seating arrangements all worked out, and there's no point rushing to get the best seats. The careers sit where they normally sit. So do the anti-careers, and so do James and Trixana, and so do the three younger boys, and so do we.

"Can I sit here?" a timid voice asks.

I turn around, my eyes instantly catching on Suzuki's split black hair. She looks so downtrodden and so sad that I can't help but say yes. I don't like how emotional this is making me feel, but it's not like we have to ally with her. She's just sitting with us once.

"Sure," I murmur, shifting to the side to make room for her.

Heather gives me a dirty look. We're going to talk about this as soon as Suzuki is gone.

The nearest peacekeeper waves his arms, and the crowd of tributes stands up in unison, moving in one swarm toward the food table like an army. Heather and I stay behind.

"We can't keep helping her, Fawn," Heather hisses.

I roll my eyes. "We're not helping her."

Heather raises her voice a little. "You're being too soft. You can't let her get to your heart. She's going to die, and you're going to die trying to save her if you keep this up."

"Why do you think I'm stupid?"

"Because…"

"Hey!" the peacekeeper shouts. "Why aren't you two girls getting your food?"

I slap my hands on my thighs. "We'll talk about this later."

* * *

_Sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young._

_How come I'm never able to identify where it's coming from?_

_I'd make a candle out it, if I ever found it._

_Try to sell it, never sell out of it, I'd probably only sell one._

_It'd be to my brother, cause we have the same nose,_

_Same clothes, home grown._

_The stone's throw from the creek we used to roam._

_But it would remind us of when nothing really mattered;_

_Out of student loans and treehouse homes, we would all take the latter._

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

Are Gary, Arien, and I really worth fearing? I don't really know. There are tributes cramming together at the far tables to avoid sitting near the careers, and even the anti-careers have a small clearing around them. Some of the weaker tributes are consistently glancing at us three. I can't tell whether or not we're actually intimidating to them.

Looking at us as an outsider, I don't think I would be afraid. The thing is, being intimidating is a double-edged sword. It keeps tributes away from you, sure, but it pains a target on your back in dripping black ink.

Standing out can be dangerous. That's the only reason I'm sticking with these two little kids. This way, I'm less likely to have my strength noticed by the careers until it really matters.

"What did you get?" Arien asks.

I stir my soup a little. "This sugary blue soup. Some pork. Some crackers."

"I got the same thing," Arien laughs.

I peer onto his plate. "No you didn't."

Arien slams his fist on the table. "I lied about the soup. And the pork. And the crackers. I lied about everything."

I roll my eyes and get back to stirring the soup. The first sip burns my mouth a little, but the flavor is strong enough to overpower the higher-than-optimal temperature. I find myself eating faster and faster as Gary starts talking to Arien. I guess I just want to get something down before Arien starts bugging me again.

"Well someone is in a bad mood, sour grapes," Arien mocks, tilting his head with each syllable. "Why so grumpy?"

I'm starting to get seriously fed up with this kid's shit. "I'm not grumpy. I'm annoyed."

"That's the same thing."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

Gary sets down his spoon and chimes in. "It is. Tell us why you're so grumpy."

"I just told you. You're being annoying."

Gary points a finger and smiles with satisfaction. "So you admit it's the same thing."

"You need to shut up."

"You need to cheer up."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

I clench my fists on the table and stare down at them, taking a deep breath. I only need to put up with these little kids for a little bit longer. It's not like they'll survive any longer than the first few days.

And yes, I'm allowed to call them little kids even though they're older than me. In the games, there's no such thing as age. It's just a number and it doesn't matter. What matters is how mature you are, how well you can stay grounded and how well you can keep your cool. You're a little kid if you break under the pressure of it all.

As soon as I finish my food, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, thinking about Fishing Song Number Three and The Party's split, mangy fur.

* * *

_This is how to be a heartbreaker,_

_Boys they like a little danger._

_We'll get him falling for a stranger,_

_A player, singing I lo-lo-love you._

_This is how to be a heartbreaker,_

_Boys they like a little danger._

_We'll get him falling for a stranger,_

_A player, singing I lo-lo-love you._

* * *

**Vista Juarez, 18 / 2017tnt**

**District 4 Female**

When lunch ends and Colosseus says we have two hours of training left, I blink hard and sprint away from the other careers. I've made the decision that I need some time away from them. I'm pretty sure we haven't visited a single survival station this far, and I want at least some time at fire starting, shelter building, and the rest before private sessions.

The mistake they're making is one that so many careers have made over the course of the games: focusing so much on weaponry that they have no idea how to survive in the wild. And then the cornucopia is destroyed, or they get lost, or the rain gets all their sponsored firewood wet, and they just die.

I won't allow myself to be helpless like that. I figure fire-starting is the best place to start, just because it's the quickest station. The trainer at the fire-starting station, a thirtyish year old lady with dark hair named Mulan, raises her eyebrows when I begin to approach.

"What's a career doing away from the weapon stations?" she asks in the weird accent where "away" is "awee" and "the" is "se".

"I just need to unwind and do something relaxing," I say, which isn't a lie. I'm getting seriously fed up with the dick Midas is turning into. And Gaius is turning into a dick at the same time, albeit a mute one.

"Well, I'm sure you know what to do here," Mulan says, smiling.

I don't know. We were never taught survival skills at the academy. It just wasn't a priority.

"No, I don't," I say, and then swallow. "Please teach me."

This is starting to feel seriously humiliating. A career at a survival station? But all that matters here is survival. The stakes are too high to care what anybody else thinks.

"Well, I assume you're planning to use fire as a weapon," she says. "In that case…"

"I'm not. I want to use it for warmth."

Mulan's eyes open wide in surprise. "Wow. Anyway, the first thing to do is make sure you're far away from any trees, bushes, or anything else that could catch fire."

I nod for her to continue.

"Here's something else to keep in mind, and please don't think I'm insulting your intelligence. Lots of panicked tributes start fires in caves or other closed spaces. That's a sure-fire way to get you killed, no pun intended. All you need is two full breaths of smoke for irreversible damage to be done to your lungs. Any more than three full breaths of smoke is almost always fatal."

I had no idea smoke could kill so quickly. I find myself consistently surprised by how much Mulan can teach me, and I can't help but think about how stupid the other careers are if they think they can make it to victory off of weapon skills only.

I complete two other survival stations before the announcement arrives. The room falls quiet as a peacekeeper bellows into a megaphone. "Your third and final day of training is now over! At the conclusion of this announcement, you are to leave this room immediately and return to your respective floors. You have thirty minutes to shower, change, warm up, or otherwise prepare before you are to report back here for your private sessions. Go."

As I race toward the elevator along with the swath of other tributes, I find myself feeling truly prepared for the first time.

* * *

_Dragonfly out in the sun,_

_You know what I mean, don't you know?_

_Butterflies all having fun,_

_You know what I mean._

_Sleep in peace when the day is done,_

_That's what I mean._

_And this old world is a new world._

_And a bold world._

_For me. For me._

* * *

**Trixana Faust, 17 / Professor R. 1**

**District 7 Female**

"How are you feeling?" James asks as I drop down onto the couch. I've dropped down into this exact spot on this exact couch so many times that I'm convinced I know every wrinkle. I know this entire place so well. Soon, all this will be over and we'll be in the arena for real. The arena were none of know what could happen. That thought is uniquely terrifying.

"Bad," I admit, not even trying to lie. If I did try, James would catch me. He knows me that well.

"I can tell," he says. "Let's talk. Any plans for your private session?"

I rest my chin on my chest. If it was anybody else, I'd be grumpy, but it isn't like I can get mad at James. "No. But I'd better make some soon. Have you got anything?"

James shakes his head. "'Course not. I thought about it a little bit on the train, a million years ago. But I stopped thinking about it, because I thought I'd go crazy if I kept thinking about it."

I blink hard. "What?"

James smiles. "Never mind. If I really had to tell you, I'd say a mixture of axes, spears, and maybe a few survival skills. The survival skills are, well, essential for survival, but the gamemakers don't find them very impressive."

I shake my head. "They don't. I think I'll go with axes. Spears, maybe not. You saw how badly I throw. And I don't really want to waste time on survival stations when I could go with another weapon and score bonus points."

The front door of the suite suddenly bursts open. "You have five minutes to report to the training room," a peacekeeper shouts, his face completely veiled by black glass.

James stands up first. "Come on, Trix."

I nod and follow behind. Real nerves start to kick up, wriggling and bouncing in my stomach. I take a deep breath before stepping into the elevator. This isn't going to kill me. Not directly, at least.

That wasn't much help at all. It's all I can do to think about how quickly this will be over. It's only fifteen minutes that I'll be standing in front of all those gamemakers.

My breathing starts to speed up again, so I take another deep breath. I won't let myself panic. I won't lose myself in all of this.

* * *

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Gaius, Vista**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky, Gray, Bryndle**

**Jack And Jill: James, Trixana**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Gary, Arien**

**5 And 11: Gwyneth, Newton, Edamame**

**Let's Hate Everyone Together: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Bernie, Suzuki, Blu, Neveah, Turner**


	31. Training Scores

**A/N: im not dead I promise**

**It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry for the scare. A lot has happened since I gave this story its last update. Many different factors have led to my sudden vanish from this website. To the authors whose stories I haven't glanced at in four months, and to you guys, the readers, I'm so sorry. I just started attending a new school where I knew basically nobody, I've been coming to terms with being a member of the LGBT community, mental health has been a bitch, and… ugh it's been pretty rough. But I'm going to finish this story. I promise. I'll finish denouement too.**

**So here are the training scores. I had about half of the private session chapter written up, but decided to scratch it because I was getting bored with it and was desperate not to lose motivation completely. If you just want the scores and the ranking of the tributes, skip to the bottom. Otherwise, happy reading! I'll hopefully see you again soon, if any of you are still here :D**

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

The fear is all gone.

Obviously, no part of this ordeal has been fun. But I can't help but think back to the early hours of all of this—the reaping, the train ride, even the chariot parade—and realize how much energy I had back then. Fearing for my life gave me that little extra kick to keep going forward.

My probability of survival is banking on this moment. Even so, I feel virtually nothing at all. That's frustrating because the actual shit show is closer than ever before. I need to feel as motivated as I used to.

Gwyneth has been just as quiet. So has Edamame, though I see him less often of course. I wonder what he must be doing up on floor eleven. Wondering is a great way to pass the time. Back in District 5, there was never time for wondering.

The games are already changing me and I haven't even entered them. This is legitimately terrifying.

I jump a little as a heavy knock comes on the bedroom door. I think it's a peacekeeper at first. Then I smell the full flower garden and know it's the escort. A peacekeeper never wears that much perfume.

"Newton," she says. "Training scores are in ten minutes. You know you've got to get ready."

There's not much I have to get ready for. How can you get ready for sitting on a couch and watching the hologram?

I throw my legs off of the bed and follow her out of the room. Gwyneth is already "ready", and so am I, I suppose. I travel the distance across the obsidian-colored tile that looks like a dance floor when it flashes and drop down next to her. The lights are already giving me a headache.

"Five minutes until the program is scheduled to begin. Prepare yourselves," the nearest peacekeeper announces.

Two loud bangs echo around the suite: the noises of our bedroom doors being locked. They don't want us running to the safety of our warm beds in case our scores aren't what we were hoping for. In there, we can truly feel safe. They don't want us feeling safe. I shouldn't want to feel safe. Feeling safe is dangerous.

"One minute."

Gwyneth is doing that stare again. That stare that's so empty yet so full of sadness. I follow her gaze to the mantelpiece, where the hologram has already flickered into existence.

"Welcome one and all to the announcement of the training scores for the tributes of the 113th annual Hunger Games!" the master of ceremonies shouts. I honestly don't know his name. "Please seat yourselves tightly, folks. You're all in for quite a roller-coaster ride."

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

"Dude. You need to get your hiney out here right _meow_."

"Shut up, Jade."

"I don't think Princess likes this new attitude."

"Princess can suck my…"

Princess meows loudly. I scratch behind her ears the way she likes it. "You're such a _pretty kitty_. You're the prettiest kitty in the Capitol."

Princess and I seat ourselves at the couch and wait for Midas. He comes out of his bedroom less than thirty seconds before the program begins, which really sucks because his score is being announced first. I wouldn't want to miss my special moment.

"Girl. That dress is so _meow_," Cashmere says. I smile and thank her, beginning to pet Princess again as the program begins.

* * *

**Midas Sinthra, 18 / Darkdemon27**

**District 1 Male**

"From District 1, Midas Sinthra with a score of **10**!"

Not a surprise at all. I've always been confident I would receive double digits. Will any of the other tributes be able to match my score? I doubt it. Even if Gaius earns a ten, there's no way he'll take the number one spot. Everything I've done up to this point has gotten the ball rolling. I don't think it'll be difficult at all to keep things rolling toward Victor's Row.

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

"From District 1, Jade D'Amore with a score of **9**!"

What was I expecting? It isn't like I would want the highest score anyway. That… what do they say… "paints a target on your back"? I sigh and scratch Princess on the back. Right now, she's all I have to worry about.

* * *

**Gaius Alabaster, 18 / Writer207**

**District 2 Male**

"From District 2, Gaius Alabaster with a score of **10**!"

Well, well, Midas. I managed to match you in the end. Even I'm a little surprised. I've always hated how cocky he is: it's possible to be confident without being cocky. Being brash is a working strategy, but only to a point. Past a certain point your allies tend to poke their knives into you. I just sit back and cross my arms. Winning this thing shouldn't be very much trouble at all.

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

"From District 2, Kennedy Coil with a score of **9**!"

The gamemakers only value physical strength. They can't see the mental behind-the-scenes I've been concealing this entire week. They'll see, eventually. They're all going to see in due time.

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

"From District 3, Monita Lidell with a score of **8**!"

What can I say? That's higher than an outlier could ever hope for. A smart outlier, at least. I might not have as much training as those careers, but I have some smarts on my head and some feet in my shoes. I think I can last pretty far if I try.

* * *

**Bernie Tropello, 16 / 2017tnt**

**District 3 Male**

"From District 3, Bernie Tropello with a score of **3**!"

That's it. I'm done. Fuck this shit.

* * *

**Vista Juarez, 18 / 2017tnt**

**District 4 Female**

"From District 4, Vista Juarez with a score of **9**!"

Well, that's better than Jade. I'm surprised by how disappointed that single digit makes me feel. It's not reasonable to feel like this, I know. It's not like those last few hours of survival stations could have shot me from a nine to a twelve or anything. But I know what I have going for me. I know what I've got, and that's what matters once it comes down to life and limb.

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

"From District 4, Dock Breckminn with a score of **8**!"

Get your pen out, Turner. I'm making some serious history here.

* * *

**Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18 / LiveFreeOrDie**

**District 5 Female**

"From District 5, Gwyneth Lenaisse with a score of **7**!"

I'm happy with that score. I'm sure that'll place me in the top half of the rankings once this whole thing is over. I look down at my lap, already thinking about how I'll get through my interview. Feverishly waiting for my training score was occupying enough. But I'm moving down the list pretty quickly.

* * *

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

"From District 5, Newton Zhang with a score of **5**!"

Well, that's that.

* * *

**Suzuki Nox, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 6 Female**

"From District 6, Suzuki Nox with a score of **2**!"

I was never going to score a 12. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that if I wish hard enough I might be able to hide somewhere safe. But when I open my eyes, all I see is the same room, only blurred this time.

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

"From District 6, Rocky Morgan with a score of **6**!"

I'm disappointed. There's no other way I can say it. I actually thought I could walk home with an eight, or maybe even just a seven. Hell, Gwyneth got a seven and Monita got an eight. Did my pants fall down during my private session? I don't recall.

* * *

**Trixana Faust, 17 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 7 Female**

"From District 7, Trixana Faust with a score of **4**!"

I could have gotten a three or a two or a one. My score leaves a lot to be desired, but hey, it's better than nothing. I cross my fingers, hoping that James will perform well.

* * *

**James Smith, 17 / TheProtectorOfHim**

**District 7 Male**

"From District 7, James Smith with a score of **6**!"

Well, I'm certainly okay with a 6. A score matching the district number would have been nice, but if this is what I have to work with then so be it.

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

"From District 8, Blu Vixen with a score of **6**!"

I love how much I've grown so far. When I was reaped I never thought I'd score higher than a 4. A 6 isn't perfection, but I'm happy with it. With a successful interview and a kill or two early on, I might actually have a shot at this thing.

* * *

**Gary Redwire, 13 / AlexFalTon**

**District 8 Male**

"From District 8, Gary Redwire with a score of **4**!"

Half of the district number, as all tributes hope for. Haha.

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

"From District 9, Neveah Sunshine with a score of **5**!"

I don't like how they said that I earned a 5. Heaven and I earned that five together. I try to look at her face, see what she's feeling, but I can hardly distinguish her features through the darkness. Even so, I can tell she's scared. You get to know someone pretty well when you essentially share a body for seventeen years. I'm scared too. I'm really, really scared.

* * *

**Gray Golas, 16 / Tyquavis**

**District 9 Male**

"From District 9, Gray Golas with a score of **7**!"

I try to look as indifferent as possible, so I just shrug. My insides squirm with an indescribable excitement I try not to show. I can't show emotion if I want any chance of making it out of these games—strong and silent. That's what I'm going for.

* * *

**Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox**

**District 10 Female**

"From District 10, Bryndle Greer with a score of **7**!"

I just smile as the others compliment me. My thoughts bounce between home and the games. I can't tell which one is more appealing. The games always means one of two things: death or wealth. And fuck wealth. Haha, fuck.

* * *

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

"From District 10, Arien Whicker with a score of **3**!"

Oh well. Do any of the others have such a large arsenal of late middle English insults? _Away, you three-inch fool! _That one is my favorite.

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie**

**District 11 Female**

"From District 11, Fawn Weed with a score of **4**!"

That's definitely disappointing. I tried not to get my hopes up before all of this all. Some things you can't help but be bummed about, and this is one of them. I close my eyes and breathe slowly in and out. I like the darkness. It's calm and still, a great place to flock to in the midst of existential turmoil.

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

"From District 11, Edamame Stanton with a score of **5**!"

A 5? Really? I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut and not complain, but I'm not smart enough to push all of this from my thoughts for the time being. I got a 5. I'll have to make some serious progress if I want to make it out alive.

* * *

**Heather Lotus, 18 / CandleFire45**

**District 12 Female**

"From District 12, Heather Lotus with a score of **4**!"

What can I say? A District 12 tribute has to be reasonably pleased with a 4, even though it leaves a lot to be desired. I stare down at my nervously crossed fingers, trying to still or slow my rushing thoughts.

* * *

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

"From District 12, Turner Willard with a score of **5**!"

Average. Completely average. The scale is supposed to be zero to twelve, but it's really one to ten. Zero and eleven are extraneous, solely meant for exemplary (or really tired) tributes who just don't fit the one-to-ten spectrum. So I'm average. That's reassuring.

"Well, there you have it, folks: the tributes' training scores, mighty impressive. That's all for tonight… what do I hear you cry? The rankings! Of course. Have a great night."

His face disappears, with large block letters almost immediately appearing in his place.

* * *

**THE RANKINGS**

**QUARTER 1**

**1\. Midas Sinthra, District 1 Male (10)**

**2\. Gaius Alabaster, District 2 Male (10)**

**3\. Vista Juarez, District 4 Female (9)**

**4\. Kennedy Coil, District 2 Female (9)**

**5\. Jade D'Amore, District 1 Female (9)**

**6\. Dock Breckminn, District 4 Male (8)**

**QUARTER 2**

**7\. Monita Lidell, District 3 Female (8)**

**8\. Gray Golas, District 9 Male (7)**

**9\. Bryndle Greer, District 10 Female (7)**

**10\. Gwyneth Lenaisse, District 5 Female (7)**

**11\. James Smith, District 7 Male (6)**

**12\. Rocky Morgan, District 6 Male (6)**

**QUARTER 3**

**13\. Blu Vixen, District 8 Female (6)**

**14\. Edamame Stanton, District 11 Male (5)**

**15\. Newton Zhang, District 5 Male (5)**

**16\. Turner Willard, District 12 Male (5)**

**17\. Neveah Sunshine, District 9 Female (5)**

**18\. Heather Lotus, District 12 Female (4)**

**QUARTER 4**

**19\. Fawn Weed, District 11 Female (4)**

**20\. Trixana Faust, District 7 Female (4)**

**21\. Gary Redwire, District 8 Male (4)**

**22\. Arien Whicker, District 10 Male (3)**

**23\. Bernie Tropello, District 3 Male (3)**

**24\. Suzuki Nox, District 6 Female (2)**


	32. The Interviews (Districts 1-4)

**A/N: My computer was having problems with the blue screen of death, so I lost some progress along the way. But I'm so glad I got the first group of interviews finished! Like I did for Broken, the interviews will be split into three chapters, with eight interviews in each one.**

**I have to leave a trigger warning for suicide on this chapter. Skip Bernie's interview if you want to avoid such things. Thank you.**

* * *

_I met a girl who sang the blues, and I asked her for some happy news._

_But she just smiled and turned away._

_I went down to the sacred store, where I'd heard the music years before,_

_But the man there said the music wouldn't play._

_And in the streets the children screamed, the lovers cried, and the poets dreamed._

_But not a word was spoken, the church bells all were broken._

_And the three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,_

_They caught the last train for the coast_

_The day the music died._

* * *

**Taj King, 46**

**District 1 Resident and Victor of the 93rd Hunger Games**

Time really flies, doesn't it? It's hard to believe it's been thirty years since they perfected the cure for the nasty Three Plague. That's what we call it now: the pathogen that those pesky rebels in District 3 unleashed when they burned down a scientific research facility. The disease devastated Panem's population and brought technological advancement to a near-complete halt as 3's factories emptied.

This place really reminds me of my younger days. It seems like just yesterday I was walking out onto that stage for my own interview. The victors, including myself, are seated in the first few rows, arranged by district. Naturally, the career districts take up an entire half of the section and then some.

The audience roars with applause as Phoenix Withers struts into the spotlight, wearing a dark-blue suit with a sparkly bow tie. He bends forward in a deep bow. As he straightens up, his mint-green hair swivels around his heart-shaped face.

"Welcome, one and all. Whether you're in the audience or watching us at home, we're so glad you could join us. Tonight, we'll all get to know our tributes a little better, as a three-minute interview is provided for each of them. First off, our _purr_-fect princess from District 1, Jade D'Amore!"

The girl waltzes onto stage wearing a skirt with glittering silver sequins. Her hair is dyed a lovely auburn color, with a golden cat-ear headband tucked underneath. The look is bright and colorful without coming off as gaudy or overdone. Black makeup forms a cat nose and whiskers on her porcelain-clear skin.

"What a lovely look!" Phoenix marvels as the girl sits down and crosses her legs. "I don't think any of us will be able to guess your favorite animal."

Jade giggles. "You might have some difficulty. Jokes aside, I love cats. My friends say that dogs are better than cats. But those people have never sat under a warm blanket with a cat tightly curled up on their lap. If that though doesn't make your heart melt, I don't know what's wrong with you. Do you have a cat, Phoenix?"

He frowns, feigning tears. "I'm afraid not. The hair irritates me."

"Lucky that we're sitting this far apart," Jade says. "I've probably got an entire cat worth of hair on me and I wouldn't want you sneezing through the rest of the interviews."

"From what I've heard, Cashmere has surprised you with a furry friend here in the Capitol. Would you mind telling me about her?"

"Her name is Princess," Jade says. At the same moment, a towering image of the fuzzy feline appears behind her. The crowd sighs with adoration. "And she likes the heart-shaped cat treats. She won't eat anything that isn't shaped like a heart."

Phoenix laughs. "Anything to say about the food here in the Capitol? Princess likes it, but do you?"

"I feel like I've lived my entire life for this," she says. Jade stares at the nearest camera. "To all future tributes back in District 1: as soon as you end up here, you've gotta try the sugary pink soup with the cherries. It's culinary heaven."

I expect either of them to make a pun about the food being to die for, but Phoenix rapidly shifts the conversation to other matters. "How's your family, Jade? What are they like?"

"Well, my grandpa basically raised me," she replies. "I've got a twin sister too. She's better than nothing. Just kidding, Eliott, I love you. My cousin Val will be getting a great seat at my victor interview too."

Phoenix leans forward in his chair. "And what'll that day be like?"

Jade lights up, eyes opening wide. "Everybody will be a cat. They'll give you cat ears when you walk in. There'll be a string quartet playing while people walk in. And Princess will get her own little crown."

Phoenix chuckles. "I just can't wait."

The loud buzzer makes Jade jump. Phoenix puts a hand on her shoulder and waves her off of the stage. "Jade, I have no doubt: you'll land flat on your feet after all of this."

Phoenix introduces the next tribute as soon as Jade disappears from sight. "Please put your hands together for Midas Sinthra, the other half of the District 1 team!"

Midas strides onto stage wearing a flashy gold suit and a black bow tie. His hair is neatly parted. The entire look is very neat and well put-together. He gives an extremely memorable first impression: this is a guy who seriously knows what he's doing. Phoenix waves the applause down, and the interview begins.

"Midas, how are you today?" Phoenix asks. As he sits, I notice that the sleeves of his suit are strategically translucent to display his muscle.

"Great, thank you. The food is great. The rooms are great. I can't wait to be back here in just a few weeks."

"Oh, so you're confident?"

"Yep," Midas says, crossing his arms. "I'll win. You know, this is all extremely exciting, and I'm so grateful for everybody who has gotten me to this point. But it's impossible not to be a little scared moving forward.

Am I hearing him correctly? The audience falls dead quiet. They're fascinated. Midas isn't acting like an emotionless killing machine. He's showing vulnerability. And it's working. It's _working._

"Well, doubts are natural," Phoenix says. "When I was much younger, learning the ropes of being an entertainer, I had my own doubts. What if I can't think up anything fast enough? What if my voice runs low? What if I get drunk and say something dumb on social media, you know? I like to think I've gotten over most of those doubts."

"You have," Midas says. "I've been a big fan for years. It's an honor to be up here with you."

"Why, thank you," Phoenix says, flattered. "There are other teenagers, little kids even, who are watching you back in District 1. In just a few years, they'll be seated right where you are. And they'll be scared. What would you like to tell them?"

Midas thinks for a while. Panem, get your notebooks out. This kid is about to make history.

"It's okay not to have everything figured out at first. Let me tell you, stepping forward at the reaping was not easy. Keeping my cool on the train was not easy. I had doubts, and having doubts is completely normal. There's a lot of push to stand out, and that push will never go away. But try not to ask yourself 'who am I really?' or 'how will I handle all of this?' Think in terms of 'what do I want?' and 'what is going to help me get there?'"

The buzzer sounds, and the audience explodes as Midas exits the stage with one last smile. Midas Sinthra has accomplished anything and everything a tribute can accomplish in an interview. I can absolutely see him winning.

"Next, we have the pleasure of hearing from District 2's Kennedy Coil!"

Her light-green gown is a very jarring change from the gold and silver of District 1. Kennedy wobbles slightly in her heels, but ultimately keeps her head up as the audience cheers.

"What a unique costume choice," Phoenix notes. "We haven't seen green from District 2, have we?"

"Oh, I don't recall," the girl says. "If I'm being honest, I've never been super obsessed with fashion. I couldn't survive in District 1. Not for one day."

"Is fashion a big thing back in District 2?"

Kennedy bites her lip. "No. My family knows nothing about fashion. They complement me whether I'm wearing sweats or a trendy dress. Wearing nice clothes to school is a confidence booster though."

Talking trash about your family generally isn't a good idea. Kennedy cringes, realizing her mistake, but recovers quickly.

"You definitely do seem confident," Phoenix says. "At the end of the day, confidence is what'll carry you through to Victor's row. You've got some pretty large shoes to fill, Kennedy. How does it feel to be the second highest ranked female tribute in the games?"

Kennedy makes a sour face. "Well, I was definitely shooting for first place. But I can't complain too much. I'm better off than most. I'm so thankful for the Capitol for everything they've done for me."

The girl tries to pull things together, but her answers are sporadic and almost never coherent. "Visiting the Capitol itself has been a great experience. The city is so beautiful at night, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," Phoenix says. "I've watched the lights sparkle every night of my life. I sincerely hope you will do the same for many years."

The audience isn't paying attention. "It's a great city. And it's beautiful. It's just beautiful."

She crosses her arms just like Midas. Whether she realizes it or not, she is trying too hard to follow Midas' lead. Kennedy Coil is more than just a little sour.

The buzzer rings. Kennedy shakes hands with the master of ceremonies and shuffles off center stage. She is pissed. If one good thing can be said about her interview, she never turned soap-box-y: she never lost her temper, she never made any bold statements to regret later. Angry tributes tend to do that, so I must say Kennedy has kept her cool well enough. Overall, though, her interview is likely to be forgotten quickly.

Phoenix leans forward once more, effortlessly transitioning into the next interview. "Put your hands together for Gaius Alabaster!"

The large, dark-skinned boy enters. He wears a midnight blue suit with dress pants and black leather shoes. The outfit isn't flashy: nothing colorful could suit his figure or his demeanor.

"One quick note, folks. Mr. Alabaster has been mute from birth. He will communicate with us by typing on this keyboard."

Phoenix snaps once. An avox appears and rests the keyboard on Gaius' lap. "When Gaius has typed his response, he can press the 'enter' key and display his words behind us in the blink of an eye. Just to make sure everything is working properly, please type the word 'testing'.

Gaius clicks a few keys, and the word flickers into existence at the back end of the stage, large enough to be seen from the very back of the audience.

"Stellar. So, Gaius, how have you been liking the Capitol so far? Are you ready for the games?"

_Yes._

"Yes? That' all we're gonna get, yes?"

_I'm ready to win. _Gaius gives a slow, but very certain, nod.

"You excited, man?"

_I'm excited for when I win. _He raises an eyebrow, as if to say that all of this is below him. He leans back in his seat, his bulky frame making it look miniature.

"Right. The fame and money," Phoenix says. "How do you feel about your opposition? There are twenty-three others. Picking your way out has got to be just a little challenging, hasn't it?"

_Keeping my eyes set on the prize._

"Well, you've certainly got an advantage. How did you manage a 10, second only to Midas?"

It's unclear whether Gaius is trying to vague and mysterious. That's the only tone to vaguely and quickly communicate through text. No matter what happens, this could never have the charm of a real interview, which is a real shame, because Gaius is one of the finest specimens of this year's crop.

After a long silence, Gaius types, _Strong enough to carry. Fast enough to duck._

"Any thoughts on the other careers?" The audience is clearly zoning out by this point. Phoenix's desperate attempt to pull things together ultimately ends with a four-letter word.

_Weak._

There's no time to explain. The buzzer rings, and Gaius is gone before the avox can come back to take the keyboard away.

"And here comes Monita Lidell from District 3!" Phoenix announces.

Monita waltzes onto stage. The sequins on her strapless orange dress glint in the stage light. Even her gold shoes glitter. She gives the crowd a sweet wave. It's hard not to like someone with such a genuine smile.

"My, my. Don't you look special," Phoenix whispers.

"It's a lovely costume, isn't it?" Monita says. "I've never worn something this bright. This is one of the lesser new opportunities, of course."

"On the subject of opportunities," Phoenix muses, "How are you getting along with your mentor?"

"Oh, Pixel?" Monita's smile widens. For a few moments, the bright dress and smile don't seem to match her large frame. But the girl works everything so effortlessly that the dissonance is barely noticeable. "She's awesome. She isn't only a great mentor; she's a great friend. And it's nice to have a friend during the pre-games."

"Oh, for sure, for sure. And speaking of friends…"

Phoenix pauses for a moment. "Got anyone back home? Anyone closer than just a friend?"

Monita waves a hand. "Oh, there's nobody. That kind of thing is so complicated. I've never gotten into it."

"You just made quite a few guys back home _very _happy, I'm sure."

"Stop it. I look like a potato."

"Nobody could turn down that smile. You're glowing, girl. You look ready for anything."

Her face turns a little red. "Well, thank you. You're glowing yourself."

"Oh, I'm old," Phoenix says, turning his head as if to deflect the compliment. "But you're young. You've got your whole life ahead of you: the whole world as your oyster. I have every confidence in you. You'll do great."

Monita flashes another smile and exits the stage. "Next up, Bernie Tropello, also from District 3!"

Bernie grudgingly trudges out of the wings wearing a flashy silver suit. His short stature and hunched posture remind me of the kind of mangled dog that waits outside a slaughterhouse. It's clear he hasn't eaten in several days. Sunken features and cracked skin attest to severe dehydration.

"Well, well," Phoenix says, "Our sixth consecutive volunteer. Why'd you do it, Bernie?"

Bernie sits down and stays silent for a few moments. The crowd murmurs softly as he fails to respond.

"You know exactly why I volunteered."

"I can't say I recall. You… oh."

The entire crowd recognizes Bernie Tropello at the same time. The chorus of gasps makes it sound like someone just collapsed on stage. Bernie Tropello the arsonist. The felon. The murderer.

"You've made some mistakes in your past. There's no denying that. But that isn't to say you can't move forew…"

"Oh, shut up," the boy interrupts. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die right now and you can't stop me."

Phoenix glances backward, making eye contact with a stagehand. He looks worried. Bernie is fuming. "You… fuckers. You absolute fuckers. I hate all of you." He sweeps a finger over the crowd. "I hate everything single one of you. I'd fucking kill every fucking one of you if I could."

More silence.

Even Phoenix's charisma can't save this disaster, despite his most valiant attempts. When Bernie pulls a short, grey knife out of his pocket, none of us know how to react. Three peacekeepers rush onto the stage. By the time they reach him, he already has the knife set on his throat.

"Take one more step and I'll fucking kill myself."

"Mr. Tropello," a peacekeeper murmurs. "Your situation is dire, but we must have twenty-four tributes going into the games. You're free to treat your own life with any regard you choose once the games begin. For now, we are placing you under arrest."

The auditorium erupts with worried murmurs. A tribute, arrested? Phoenix struggles to quiet the crowd with some light jokes. Even by raising his voice, he is barely audible. However, the interviews must continue on schedule. The audience relapses toward a state of relative calm as Vista Juarez of District 4 makes an entrance.

"In my opinion, District 4 has some of the greatest costumes," Phoenix says, gesturing toward Vista's sparkling blue gown. "Water in and of itself is just lovely, isn't it?"

"For sure," Vista responds. She looks like she wants to cry. I'm pretty shaken myself. "I'd like to thank my stylist for the great costume. She can be a life saver. No pun intended."

The crowd chuckles. Vista is trying to take the audience's minds off Bernie, which is smart.

"How do you like the Capitol, Vista?"

She presses her lips together. "Very… colorful." She doesn't say anything else.

"Feelings on the upcoming games?" Phoenix waves his hands. "Thoughts?"

Vista nods. "I feel prepared enough. I'm not nervous. I'm pretty excited, all things considered."

"You have every reason to be excited," says Phoenix. "You're the highest ranking female tribute! That must feel stellar."

"Oh, it does. It… does." Vista stares down at her lap, her fingers laced over her chest. The girl's tone is very absent, almost dreamy.

"How'd you accomplish it?"

"Oh, I've not accomplished anything yet. Not until I hear the trumpets. That's when I'll know everything has been worthwhile."

Phoenix hums softly. "I like that mentality. It really keeps one moving forward."

Vista nods once. "Keep moving forward. Just keep moving forward."

The most forgettable career interview, no doubt. I struggle to remember a single line from the interview as the buzzer rings and the exotically-lovely girl curtsies out of the spotlight. She might have done better if she wasn't so shaken from Bernie. Are the other tributes equally shocked? Will every subsequent interview be equally disastrous?

"Let's bring in Dock Breckminn from District 4!"

His blue tux is a similar color to Vista's gown, with the sparkle-factor significantly toned down for a more masculine feel.

"My, my, Dock. I've heard a lot about you."

"That's what I'd expect. I'm just so amazing, aren't I?"

Phoenix laughs. "You're twelve years old. Twelve years old, and ranked sixth. How is it done?"

Dock thinks for a while. "I've got more to me than you'd think at first glance. You're not going to like this answer, but you'll just have to wait and see."

"We all love being kept on the edge. It keeps things fun. What do you think of the 113th Hunger Games?"

"Sounds great."

"Think you can hold up your spot in the career pack?"

Dock laughs. "Oh, I'm not a career. I've got my own little group set up. We're little, but we're fierce."

"I don't think you're little. You're big in spirit. You're big in your intentions."

"That's a poetic way to put it. But yeah, we're going to pack a punch."

This interview is providing surprising little about Dock's personality. The victors were let on that he has broken a few rules leading up to the present day, but nothing was ever completely specified. Dock could probably sit in silence for three minutes and be a smash hit: it's not every day that a twelve-year-old ranks sixth.

I realize he may be being vague on purpose. That trope borders on overdone. If I were his mentor, I'd have cautioned him against it.

Phoenix speaks next. "If there's one thing all tributes have in common, it's loving the Capitol. What's your favorite part?"

Dock raises his pitch a little. "Working the shower out was kind of fun. Reminded me of those damn six-color puzzle cubes you get at birthday parties."

The buzzer sounds, and Dock brightly leaps off of the stage with a smile and a wave. I haven't seen him much, but from what little I've seen, this seems like such a huge change from who he's always been. He clearly put on a mask for his interview. But his attitude is so sporadic that the mask might as well have a big hole in it.

I lean back in my seat and take a sip of water, eagerly awaiting the next tribute's entrance.


	33. The Interviews (Districts 5-8)

**A/N: Here are the next eight tributes! Not much to say about this one, but please review if you have anything to say. Stay tuned for future updates :D**

* * *

_But if by chance you're here alone,_

_Can I have a moment before I go?_

'_Cause I've been by myself all night long_

_Hoping you're someone I used to know._

* * *

**Sycamora Bromley, 44**

**District 7 Resident and Victor of the 85th Hunger Games**

"Let's give a warm welcome to District 5's Gwyneth Lennaise!"

A girl in a light blue dress, definitely more pale than the previous eight, shuffles into the spotlight, struggling to keep balance in her heels.

"So, Gwyneth, how do you like the Capitol?"

"It's cool." She shrugs. "Though I don't really get what's with all the weird hairdos."

Phoenix laughs, shrugging a little. "Guess crazy hair isn't that popular in District 5."

"Oh, it's not," Gwyneth says, "But it looks nice on you."

"Why, thanks, love. What are some other big changes from life back home?"

"There are more windows." Gwyneth doesn't say any more.

"Really? That's what has you the most shocked?" Phoenix dramatizes his response, sounding taken aback.

"Well, we spend most of the time here inside," Gwyneth explains, shrugging. "Life in 5 was pretty similar, what with factories and the like. But there were never any windows. It's a nice change."

Gwyneth takes on a relatively casual role that plays well enough with the audience. "How well prepared are you for the games, Gwyneth?"

"I got ranked tenth," the girl responds. "And I scored a seven. That's got to mean something. I mean, I think I've got what it takes to make it far."

"It's nice to see you've got faith in yourself."

"Thank you."

The buzzer sounds, and the girl departs with a single spin of her blue dress.

"Next up is Newton Zhang, also from District 5!"

Newton enters wearing a black tux, his straight black hair slicked back. He shakes Phoenix's hand before sitting down.

"Sir, you're looking very sharp today," Phoenix marvels.

"Thank you. You're looking good yourself. Great fashion sense."

"Now, let's not make this all about me," Phoenix says. "It's your time to shine. Let's start at the beginning. How did you feel when you were reaped?"

"I think I kept my cool pretty well. I felt nervous, of course. But I felt ready."

It's a relief he didn't say _I was glad I didn't have to go to school on Monday. _Some tribute says that every year. It's the most overused line in tribute interviews.

"Ready? How so?"

"I was in the right mindset. Dressed to impress. I felt as confident as I could have felt." Every answer the boy gives is extremely articulate. He never stumbles over his words. He definitely has a gift for public speaking.

"It's great that you're confident, Newton," Phoenix says.

"Call me Newt," the boy interrupts, too lightly to be considered rude.

"Newt," he revises, "This week of preparation is all about getting ready. But feeling ready can be more important than anything else. What else have you done here to get ready?"

"The training center was key," he answers. "Getting in a little bit of everything is always a good idea. Getting through my interview was the next big step. And here we are."

"Well, I'll say you've pulled it off mighty well."

The buzzer rings. They shake hands again before Newt leaves. The boy is extremely professional and proper. A gentlemen who feels ready for anything.

"Next out: Suzuki Nox, District 6!"

The District 6 stylists went with the star theme again. Her black dress seems to float around her thin frame. The black material is dotted with pinpoints of light. Stars for navigation, for not losing sight of one's way. It's memorable and always plays well with the audience.

Suzuki offers a rather timid smile to the cameras and then sits down. Her feet barely touch the ground. Unlike the young men and women she'll be up against, Suzuki is just a little girl.

"My, don't you look special," Phoenix comments, taking in the way she sits delicately.

"Thank you. It's very… soft." She's truly a child.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright." She pauses for a long time. "The buildings here are very big."

Phoenix smiles, trying to encourage her. "Well, congratulations on keeping your head up this long. That isn't easy, I know."

She whispers a modest "thanks".

"Speculations on the arena? Predictions?"

Suzuki stares down at her lap. "I wouldn't know where to begin to guess."

"Hopes, then?"

"I want a forest. Lots of places to… disappear."

The two sit in silence for several seconds. Phoenix makes a speedy recovery. "Are you good at hiding, Suzuki?"

The girl perks up at the sound of her name. It has her more engaged. "Yeah. They can't kill me if they can't find me."

"And they're not going to find you?"

She shakes her head. Her voice is now quieter than ever, barely higher than a whisper. "No. They're not."

The buzzer sounds. Suzuki leaves without another word.

"Give a warm welcome to Rocky Morgan from District 6!"

Rocky enters wearing a white silk shirt and black pants. He runs his fingers through his hair as he takes a seat, appearing both relaxed and ready.

"How are you doing?" Phoenix asks, seemingly unsure how to approach this interview just yet.

"I'm doing well. The interviews are my personal favorite part of the pre-games festivities."

Phoenix raises and eyebrow. "Why? Because you're on T.V?"

"Something like that."

While it's hard to describe Rocky's presence as menacing, he certainly has a power for keeping the audience quiet. He comes off as mysterious rather than vague.

"How's your family holding up back home, you think?" Phoenix asks.

Rocky jumps suddenly, looking like he's been struck. He takes a deep breath. "Just fine, I'd guess."

"Can you tell us about them?"

"Mom and Dad. And Ke."

"Ke? He your brother?"

"Yeah. He's younger than me."

Rocky spaces his words apart to let everything sink in. He makes it obvious how deliberate he is, which is smart. Certain things are shining: the things that he wants to shine. He feels in control of things. He must feel prepared.

"Tell us about yourself, Rocky," Phoenix says. "What are your strengths?"

"I'm very protective."

"Well, you've got some lucky allies then."

"If I have your back, I'll do anything to keep you safe."

He doesn't say anything else. The buzzer sounds, and he saunters off stage while the next tribute enters.

"Next up is Trixana Faust from District 7!"

Trixana wears a light green skirt with blue heels. It's a cute outfit, and Trixana seems to like it.

"Trixana Faust! Please have a seat!" Phoenix motions to the chair across from him.

"Lovely dress. Looking very stylish," he remarks.

"Thanks!" Trixana grins.

"So, how have you been? Must be weird to be in the Capitol after so long in District 7. How have you been holding up?"

"Pretty well," Trixana says. Her smile starts to fade and she shifts uncomfortably. Sweat starts to appear on her forehead. "It's a lovely city, really."

"Tell us about District 7," Phoenix says. "Most of the people watching this, all they know about District 7 is trees. That can't be all there is, can it?"

Trixana shakes her head, squinting her eyes. "Oh, no. It's literally just trees. Trees everywhere."

"Sounds tiring."

"Well, if you ever want to build a house…" Trixana clicks her tongue. "Anyway, I do love how unique the Capitol is. Not like District 7 wasn't special, in its own way. It will always have a special place in my heart."

The girl is putting up an immense struggle to keep her cool, and she is more or less successful. The audience is definitely siding with her.

"It can be interesting to look on the future. This entire place is sort of futuristic. But for now, I think it's my best bet to live in the present. Take things as they come. The games can be… a bit of a handful, if you know what I mean."

Phoenix hums softly as the buzzer rings.

"Next up: James Smith from District 7!"

He jogs onto stage wearing a dark green suit and a multicolored bow tie that reminds me of a sunset.

"My my, James Smith," Phoenix contemplates as the boy takes a seat. "That's no ordinary name."

"Well, I'm no ordinary person."

"How are you feeling? I know you tributes do a lot of preparing for your interviews, but nothing can compare to actually being live. What's it like, for the first time?"

"It's a bit nerve-wracking," he answers. "But not quite as terrifying as I thought it would be."

"Mind if I change the subject? Tell us some more about District 7."

James presses his lips together. "Oh. Everything Trix said. Trees and trees and trees."

"What's your family like? Got a girlfriend?"

"No." The answer is very sudden.

Phoenix squints his eyes. "Oh, I don't believe it. There's gotta be somebody."

"Well, Phoenix. You see, I'm… I don't…"

He can't speak.

"Let's talk about your family," Phoenix says in an effort to make a quick recovery.

"Yep. About them." James once again starts to breathe properly. "We help around the church. It's just mom and dad and I."

"Is religion a big thing in 7?"

"Not really," James says. "But it can be relaxing to look up on something you can't comprehend."

Phoenix frowns. "Sounds terrifying."

"Oh, it's not." There's no time for more conversation. The buzzer sounds, and the two share a handshake before James exits.

"Give a warm welcome to our girl from District 8, Blue Vixen!"

The girl struts out of the wings in a dark red dress with a black sash. A red streak runs through her hair. The look might work on a bloodthirsty career, but it just looks out of place on Blu, especially given her short stature.

"Miss Vixen, let me just say, you are stunning!"

Blu laughs. "This dress is great, isn't it? I feel so regal. Like a queen."

"I can assure you, you look every bit as amazing as you feel. And, as always, it's great you've got confidence."

Blue lifts up the red fabric, and the audience sighs in wonder.

"Any thoughts on the games? Feelings? Tell us anything you want."

"I might not look like much," she says. "But I can promise anyone listening that I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty."

It's definitely hard to believe. Her demeanor is the last thing from intimidating. Who knows, maybe she'll pull off a surprise at some point.

"And the arena? Anything you're hoping for?"

"I hope there's darkness."

"Darkness. Could you explain some more?"

Blu rests her arms on her lap. "I'm a great hider. And I'm fast enough to jump out and surprise almost anyone. What's the word for that?"

"Ambush."

Blu rolls her eyes. "Yep. That's the one."

"Met any interesting tributes yet?" Phoenix asks.

"Oh, sure. But I've made the decision to go in solo. There are some great potential allies around me, but I think I'll ultimately be more successful by myself."

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with that," Phoenix says. "I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say: I can't wait to see what you'll pull off."

Blu waltzes out of the spotlight as the buzzer rings. In her place, Gary Redwire enters, wearing a silk-brown button-down shirt.

"Welcome, Gary Redwire from District 8! Have a seat, make yourself comfortable."

Gary sits down with his arms straight down at his sides, terrified.

"Doing alright?"

"Yep."

Phoenix takes a deep breath. "Now, I have to ask… are you into poetry?"

"No. Not at all."

A chorus of awkward laughs ring through the audience.

"You're going to have to give us an explanation for what happened at the reaping."

"I wasn't feeling myself."

Phoenix raises an eyebrow, and Gary raises his voice. "I just wasn't feeling myself at the reaping. I might have been sick."

"Well, no worries. It's great you're well again. Nervous?"

He swallows hard. "Yep."

"Don't be nervous, honey. We're all here to have a great time. Imagine I'm the only one here. Or imagine the audience in their underwear, I don't care. Do whatever you need to."

"Okay."

"If you don't like the poetry, you must like the stars," Phoenix says. "You gave us some pretty inspiring words about them."

"Please don't remind me of that anymore."

"Got it. Want to tell us about District 8?"

There's no time for Gary Redwire to say anything more. The buzzer rings, and he eagerly leaps back into the wings. Only four more districts to go.


	34. The Interviews (Districts 9-12)

**A/N: Happy new year! Here's to a great 2020… **_**there's glitter on the floor after the party**_**… And here the interviews are pulled to a close. These have been so fun to write! I plan to have two more chapters out before the bloodbath. Next chapter will be a "night before" kind of thing, and chapter 36 will be the launch rooms, tubes, and maybe even a tiny little glance of the arena ;) I've got the next chapter written up and it should be up very quickly after this one. Stay tuned, and please review if you can :D**

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"Next out is Neveah Sunshine from District 9!"

The girls enter wearing a long-sleeved lime-green dress that sweeps the floor. The garment hides their features, so all that's visible are their heads and hands. You could almost believe there are two separate girls under the material, which makes everyone a little more comfortable.

"Neveah and Heaven Sunshine! It's a pleasure to see you two."

"We're super happy to see you too, Phoenix," Heaven replies.

"I've been enjoying the Capitol. It's very beautiful," Neveah adds.

"Glad you've been enjoying yourselves. You miss your family?"

"Oh, yes," Heaven says. "Mom and Dad. We miss them terribly. We miss them both so much."

The girls are just so friendly, a little too friendly, almost.

"I'm sure they miss you too," Phoenix wears a sad smile. "Either of you got anyone special back home?"

"Fernie for me, Abe for Heaven," Neveah says. "They're both very nice."

"That's gotta be awkward sometimes."

"Oh, it is. It is," Heaven says. "But we've learned to live with it and embrace it. We're closer than any humans could be, and that's something very special."

Phoenix smiles. "Got any talents the other tributes should watch out for."

Neveah purses her lips. "We have sticky fingers."

He feigns a look of revulsion. "Not literally, right?"

"I mean, we're fast and we're good at staying unnoticed. We have… disadvantages, sure, but we aren't helpless."

The buzzer rings, and the twin girls leave the stage smiling.

"Put your hands together for Gray Golas from District 9!" He shouts as the boy enters in a shining cold suit. It gives him his own flashy aura.

Gray puts on a half-smile and sits down. "How are you this evening?" Phoenix asks.

"I'm great." He says, then stays quiet for a moment. "This has been the most memorable experience of my life."

"Oh, for sure," Phoenix says. "It isn't like you've ever been to the Capitol before! What are you enjoying the most?"

"Everything," he says. "But I must say I've been looking forward to my interview. Now that I'm in front of all you fine people, I can't say I'm disappointed." He gestures toward the audience.

"How cute," Phoenix says. "There's a rumor that you've allied with a few other tributes. Anti-careers, maybe?"

"Definitely," Gray says. "Monita and Rocky and Bryndle and I. We make a great team."

"What are you good at?"

"Oh, you know I can't tell you," Gray says, laughing a little. "But we complement each other. I think we can make it through if we make an effort."

"I'm sure you can. Until then, I'll make an effort not to explode with suspense."

"You know none of us believe you. Soon enough you'll be screaming."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Phoenix says, which makes the audience laugh. "Is someone copying my style?"

"You wish."

The interview takes a more serious turn as the audience quiets down. "Gray, I know there's something you'd like to say to someone back home."

"Yeah." He swallows hard. "A boy named Tiller bullied me for several years when we were younger. He apologized to me in the goodbye room, and, at that moment, there's no way I could have forgiven him. But I've been thinking about him a lot, and all of this makes me realize life is too short to hold grudges. I'd like to be your friend if I ever make it home. I forgive you."

Gray ends his interview with a bang, and it works. The audience falls dead quiet, then roars with applause as the buzzer sounds. Gray leaves center stage with a confident smile.

"From District 10, Bryndle Greer!" Phoenix announces.

Bryndle looks lovely, entering in a dark red dress with matching lipstick and heels. She reminds me of a movie star. The way she moves is very elegant as well.

"Phoenix," the girl says, nodding as she seats herself across from the host. "How nice to see you. This chair is very comfortable."

She pauses a little while for effect. "Very comfortable. What do you say about calling off the interviews to let me stay here the rest of the night?"

Phoenix just laughs and shakes his head. "Brought your sense of humor, didn't you?"

"You bet. You want some?"

Bryndle puts a finger near her nose as if to pull something out.

"You should keep it," Phoenix says, feigning revulsion. "You'll be able to use it better than me, anyway. I've not got a funny bone in my body."

Bryndle frowns. "Who told you that? You're great."

"Why, thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Would you mind telling us about training? How'd you rank ninth?"

The girl grins and shrugs her shoulders, happy to hold a secret. "I have my ways."

"So, Bryndle, what do you think of your competition?"

She purses her lips. "Well, I won't say there aren't any strong tributes. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make my way through. Don't count me out."

"Oh, you know I would never do that," Phoenix says. "Never in a million years."

The buzzer rings, and Bryndle exits with a spin of her red dress. Overall, her interview was a huge success. Given she wasn't particularly popular before, those three minutes just might have saved her life.

"Arien Whicker, District 10!" Phoenix exclaims.

The small boy makes his entrance in a generic black tux. The look is enhanced by the cow print boots with spurs, which add to the whole District 10 feel.

"Arien Whicker! Please have a seat! How are you?"

"Good. Thanks for asking." The boy's voice is young and sweet.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself? What do you do back in District 10?"

He thinks for a moment. "I act."

"Really? In plays?"

"Sometimes," he answers. "My school does one theater production every year. Sometimes it's fun to round up a few friends and act out something after school."

"Well, we have some great playwrights here in the Capitol," Phoenix says. "If you become a victor, you'll be mighty pleased with everything at your disposal, I'm sure. Got any other talents?"

Arien pauses and leans in for dramatic effect. "Can you keep a secret?"

Phoenix nods briskly, then glances at the cameras and back. "Just between me and you. No one has to know."

"I can touch my tongue to my eye."

Phoenix leans back, completely shocked. "Don't leave us hanging, boy."

Arien reaches into his mouth, grabs his tongue with two fingers, and pulls it up to touch his eye. The audience cries out in either disgust or laughter as he lets go, letting it slide back into his mouth.

"May I ask how you discovered this talent?" Phoenix asks.

He shrugs. "Bored."

The buzzer rings, and Arien leaves with the cheers of the crowd behind him.

"From District 11, Fawn Weed!" Phoenix announces.

The girl enters wearing a fuchsia dress and matching heels. Her hair is extravagantly curled.

"Thanks for joining us, love," Phoenix says as the girl takes a seat. "I love you outfit."

Fawn tilts her head and smiles. "It's lovely, isn't it? My stylist and prep team are incredibly gifted in what they do. I should ask for a round of applause for their expertise."

The audience complies.

"Fawn. I have to ask, how are you feeling?"

"Well," she says. "As well as you can be when you'll be thrown into the snake pit tomorrow."

"Been thinking about it a lot?"

She shrugs. "I have endeavored not to. But I've found strategizing to be beneficial at times."

The girl is rather regal and picturesque, with her speech incredibly clear. If one thing is for sure, she's putting on a good image.

"How have you been holding up?" Phoenix asks. "I know that's a lot of pressure to put on a young fawn's shoulders."

"I'm not young," Fawn snaps. "Admittedly, I'm at the lower end of the age spectrum. But I'm fierce and I know I can make it out of this thing alive." She sounds sincere.

"You don't have the mannerisms of a fawn," Phoenix says.

She shakes her head. "No. I don't. A fawn runs and cowers next to its mother at the first sign of adversity. I might want to come up with a nickname, but Fawn is about as short a name as you can get."

"Good luck with that. I can't wait to hear what name you'll pick. What do you do in your spare time?"

"I do a lot of things."

"Pick one."

"I like to hang out with friends."

"Tell us about your best friend."

"Her name is Daisy," Fawn says. "She's very sweet. We complete each other, you might say." Which makes a good part of the audience laugh.

On that note, the buzzer rings. Fawn looks rather confident as she makes her exit.

"Edamame Stanton, District 11!"

The boy from 11 enters wearing a brown suit. As he walks, the suit begins to change from the brown of soil to the bright green of plant life. Somehow the lights on stage manage to shift the colors as he travels.

"Welcome to the stage, Edamame!" Phoenix shouts as he takes a seat.

"Please call me Ed."

"I have to ask, Ed, who are those friends you found in the training center?"

"Newt and Gwyneth from District 5."

Phoenix persists. "And what have you three been up to?"

"Nothing." He refuses to open up about his strategy, which is smart.

"Really? It didn't look like nothing. Usually tributes don't spend three days doing nothing."

The audience chuckles. Edamame goes with the generic answer, "A little bit of everything."

Phoenix smiles. "And a little bit of everything is always a good thing. You have family back home?"

The boy nods.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to them? They're probably watching."

"I miss you and I love you."

Phoenix blinks hard, shocked. "I can't believe I've taken this long to ask you about your outfit. How does it work?"

"Well, nobody explained the physics to me completely," Edamame admits, "but it's something to do with lots of little pieces that shine in different places when the angle of the light changes."

"Sounds complicated."

"A little. But it looks nice, doesn't it?"

"For sure."

The buzzer rings, and that's that. The entire interview was rather plain. Other than his costume, pretty forgettable. One more district left to go.

"Heather Lotus, District 12!"

Heather enters wearing a sparkly silver dress. Little pieces of something shiny cover the dress like falling stars. Black fabric hugs her torso, with something silver woven into her hair.

"Heather Lotus! Your dress is amazing!"

"Thanks," the girl replies. Then she looks over the audience. She makes eye contact with just about every person in the first few rows, her gaze like daggers.

"Tell us about home, sweetie. What was your favorite part of District 12?"

"Friends."

"Where did you hang out with them?"

"School."

She refuses to peel her eyes away from the audience. She is one cold girl. Her expression blank of everything but the anger in her eyes, she continues to sweep her gaze over the crowd, a hate so strong carried with it.

Phoenix tries his best, but he can't coax any good answers out of the stubborn the girl. The buzzer rings, and the girl is gone. No handshake, no words of parting. Heather Lotus has my curiosity piqued, that's for sure.

"Last, but certainly not least, Turner Willard from District 12!"

The boy from District 12 jogs onto stage. I quickly realize why he's running. The friction of his arms running against the suit causes orange sparks to shoot from the fabric. The sparks land on the floor and go out immediately. Still, a peacekeeper with a fire extinguisher has his head poked around the corner, ready for anything.

"Please have a seat," Phoenix says. "How does it feel to finish off the interviews?"

"Definitely stressful," he admits. "But I've had the most time to think about what I want to say. I feel prepared."

"Something else you've been preparing for?"

"Oh, the games?" The boy suddenly lights up. "I've been preparing for those my entire life, even if I never thought I'd enter them."

Phoenix squints. "Could you explain?"

"I watch them over and over again. The library has almost all the deluxe editions, only the super expensive ones—50 and 100—missing. I know what it takes to win. I know what you have to do, I know how you have to act. I know what's worked in the past."

"With all due respect, Turner, you're pretty young. How do you find it to keep your head up?"

"Yes, I'm young," Turner admits. "That's what Poplin and Pixel thought. Well, Surge might have been thinking it too. But I doubt it."

The audience chuckles. "Anyway," he continues. "My chance of winning will always be there. It has to be there. It's history, it's math. 100-1 odds is all I need to win."

"I wish I could be this optimistic," Phoenix remarks.

"Thank you."

"Tell us about your costume. How does it work?"

Turner laughs. "Well, I could sit here all day explaining it. Because I'm just so smart," he says, his voice ringing with sarcasm. "To be honest, I'm not completely sure. I think it works kind of like a match against a matchbox. There's something added to keep anything from actually catching fire."

"And we definitely would not want anything catching fire."

At that, the final buzzer rings, and Turner makes his exit, letting sparks fly in all directions.

The audience explodes into applause as Phoenix stretches to full height, spreading his arms. "Thank you all for being here tonight! I hope you enjoyed each of these memorable moments with Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Gaius, Monita, Bernie, Vista, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Suzuki, Rocky, Trixana, James, Blu, Gary, Neveah and Heaven, Gray, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Edamame, Heather, and Turner! I certainly did. Tune in to Capitol TV at 6:00 tomorrow morning. First, we'll all watch live footage of the bloodbath as it plays out. After that, I'll break things down a quarter frame at the time so nobody misses anything. Who's excited?"

The crowd roars even louder.

"That's what I like to hear! Have a great night, Panem."


	35. ghostin

**A/N: DOUBLE UPDATE! This chapter is kind of… weird. I contemplated leaving it out completely, as it was more of an exercise than anything, but I thought you might enjoy. It's the second chapter inspired by a song (the first one was Chapter 24). I also finished reading some James Joyce stuff recently and have been dying to try out stream-of-consciousness. So here we are: the **_**literally uninterrupted**_** thoughts of the tributes as they lie awake at night. Even if this sucks, it's sure to be something unique and interesting for me as a writer.**

**P.S. This made me realize I'm a hoe for songs that sound like the ocean. Please HMU if you have any recommendations 3**

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_though I wish he were here instead_

_dont want that living in your head_

_he just comes to visit me_

_when im dreaming every now and then_

_and after all that weve been through_

_theres so much to look forward to_

_what was done and what was said_

_leave it all here in this bed with you_

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**turner**

Ten oclock ten fifteen ten thirty ten forty five eleven oclock i cant sleep the thoughts keep me awake, the thoughts come and go like ocean waves, like so many raindrops that run off into the grass and disappear forever, they slip past, they fall they tumble they run and they slide, I guess I think about home more than anything, but home is a lot of things to me, its the smell of books its getting coal dust stuck under your nails its summer rain its grey snow and its the peacekeepers, the keepers who only keep violence, who only hurt and never heal,

home is all that and home is beatrice, she was really so lovely, fresh like a raindrop soft like a petal, sweet like candy and she always smelled like books every moment with her was so lovely wasnt it curling up under the tall shelves with the bell ringing floors creaking raindrops sliding down the window, carving little paths into the dust as they ran down, sometimes swallowing one another growing greedily larger and larger sometimes getting smaller and smaller until they just disappeared and evaporated, when it was too dark to read you pick a drop you watch it go down watch it time it race with someone else,

home was all that but this is so much more, hot baths warm beds hot meals, this is hot home was cold but everything here feels empty, empty because theyre fake when they tell you good morning because there are no books because you cant help your mind from wandering when they give you time to relax they never give you time to relax, even before being chosen nothing was relaxing, getting your blood drawn standing in crowded pens waiting in long lines staying quiet through the boring speeches and then they draw your name and everything kind of blurs together silence whispers of thanks dust and stone walls a nice purple couch a window with iron bars saying goodbye, goodbye is the worst and the room was much too friendly for something so awful it was a lovely room really but I only remember the purple couch I remember a few other things I guess the window bailey is that only in district twelve or the other districts too, districts one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven were they all just as scared weve all got the same chance but its hard to ignore the past when you see masonry and luxury and fishing make more victors than grain livestock mining,

mining is the scariest, twelve mining mine its my district, we make coal, we made misty haymitch arnold with years and years between, years and years when tributes died when families were split apart, those poor kids screamed and screamed they screamed as they were reaped they screamed on the chariots they screamed on the trains they screamed in the training center they screamed in their interview they screamed and screamed and screamed as their plate rose they screamed as they were pulled away drained siphoned away like pulling a loose thread I wont be one of them I wont go down screaming its better to go down fighting than to go down screaming, eleven fifteen

i wonder if heather is asleep shes gotta be im the only one worrying this is just me im alone but im not alone were all scared, we can pretend were not we can be confident charismatic charming but were all just scared because were all about to die and theres nothing we can do, I bet even the careers are scared even though they jaunt rather than suggest confident rather than timid killing rather than hiding because you can totally win this thing if you just wait for everyone else to leave in the natural course of things, nature is funny isnt it, youre born you live you cry and you laugh you make enemies you hate you fall in love and you multiply you get old time twists your face and makes you sag then you cant walk and then you leave youre done preparing theres nothing to prepare for we spend all our lives preparing you learn to read to prepare for school you go to school to prepare for work you work to prepare for the lives of your children they work to prepare for the lives of their own, just preparing and preparing until theres no more preparing to do until theres nothing to do but lie back say youre done say im tired say im maybe just a little ever so slightly bored and then you leave, you leave on the wings of the wind you leave on the ocean waves and who knows where youre off to,

you might go off on a little boat with the sun setting the waters calming as the moon rises dazzling silver the stars like gold, but what if it isnt calm what if the waters are roaring what if you werent ready what if the sun was at its peak and you werent tired and you said no I dont want to go im not ready but you cant do anything because thats just how it is youre born you live you love you leave anyway, no matter how bad you want to live if you were a saint or a murderer no matter how badly you want to live no matter how good or bad you are, so does it even matter whats the point of enjoying the ride I mean may as well enjoy it while it lasts but it signifies nothing in the long run, the planets will continue to rotate they dont care about you the sun will rise and set it doesn't care about you objects in motion will remain in motion eff equals em ay every action equal opposite reaction, but the fact you were part of something goes beyond everything else, you existed you put a little piece into the big jigsaw puzzle of the universe you were part of something good and right and real and nothing can erase that,

* * *

**james**

lets see theres been a few hasnt there, well how old was i probably five it was kindergarten the red crayons ran out i headed over to the table with the big bin of colors picked a few i liked I couldnt stop looking at the one sitting there I liked his eyes thats all I remember they were green like a leaf not the ones on the ground like a leaf when its spring you just lie back and breathe in and cant believe how good it all is and nothing matters because the leaves are so lovely, that kind of leaves I said hi whats your name sat down next to him I dont remember him very much next thing I know im ten mom and dad are fighting over some tax they cant pay maybe something they cant afford they wonder which musts they can cut out and which musts are really musts,

and we turn to the church theyre nice to us they give us a warm place to sleep all we have to do is clean be quiet learn a few lines, lines in some weird version of our language the words are the same but theyre twisted like a funhouse mirror I dont know what they mean some of them are pretty some are terrible but they resound with me, and now ive been seeing him around, a new him, he has black hair and big brown eyes with big glasses and thats what I think it all is, I think its 'you look nice and I want to be around you' I talk to him but this time I feel kinda nervous heart fast something feels weird in my stomach,

im on a playdate with her and we kiss and they take a photograph a cherished memory, im on a playdate with him and we kiss and oh no none of that not with us you know I cant believe thats my son come on were going home, the only books im allowed to read are the ones from the church but a friend lends me some and I read one and two girls live together and I go to mom she says give me that what are you reading they have a disease that makes them like wrong, the way they like the way they love is wrong, its all wrong were right and thats all okay because being right is what keeps us all alive its what keeps our stomachs full what keeps us warm at night just do what they tell us to do,

im twelve now and theres another he, I dont understand the way I feel, the other boys talk about she her she her but I can only see he him he him, I cant believe how pretty his voice is one day he hugs me and I just freeze I know this isnt some kid thing im gonna grow out of, we keep things up and now he is the leaves, hes what makes me lie back hes the breeze that cools me down hes my rain on the roof hes my sun setting below the horizon my warm load of laundry hes the peace and quiet hes the noise of the waves the flip side of the pillow the good grade the warm bed, hes everything I could never explain the heart racing the fast breath the dry throat big pupils smile shaking blinking bright eyes and hot face,

then we just get further apart until hes not there when i reach I dont know why he leaves family issues maybe maybe a million other things but the last time were together were just eating bread outside leaves sun wind grass bugs birds and it comes like a letter in the mail I like him, I like him like those hes like their shes but were both hes and he likes me too but thats wrong a he doesnt like a he a he likes a she, I talk to a few friends hear the same thing from them all, man woman garden snake apple,

* * *

**monita**

none of them know him the way I do one day yesterday the day before maybe he was writing a letter old yellowed paper the paper in our bedrooms that never gets replaced because tributes never use it the things we write cant be sent to our families its just to keep our minds in order keep us sane maybe because yeah were all insane,

bernies been quiet hes always been quiet quiet on the train quiet in the training center hes done a lot of hiding too he might be depressed, miss violet taught us about depression in seventh grade her classroom was nice with a big window pot of flowers tiled floor tables always kept clean, school then was always about work there might have been a little reading and math but we learned about technology mostly about different technological advancements a history probably more twisted than we could ever know, but miss violet was different she cared about all of us she asked us in the morning if wed eaten if wed washed,

they give away their possessions their passwords theyre always tired they dont try they seem sick they dont sleep they wont eat, she taught us everything she wasnt supposed to one day she was just gone, gone like sand through your fingers the school was so much sadder without her, we all had our own ways of explaining her absence to the younger students but anyone over age nine knew what had really happened

they can take you away whenever they want but its always in the night, you wake up and theyre standing above you flashlights youre under arrest stand up and youre gone, gone just like that, it must happen more often in the other districts because it almost never happened to people i knew, it happened to miss violet i know it did it was like she just disappeared everything in her classroom was untouched the blackboards filled the pitcher of water left to slowly evaporate posters sitting on the wall notebooks on the floor alphabet chart AaBbCcDdEeFfGgHhIiJjKkLlMmNnOoPpQqRrSsTtUuVvWwXxYyZz cabinet

i wonder if people miss me the same way like i just disappeared like they blinked and im gone they see me on the television on the train screeeech chariots cheer training center thwack interview bravo, i will fight as hard as i can to pick my way out of this mess ill make it home ill see them all again.


	36. Into the Tubes

**A/N: Next chapter is the bloodbath: A.K.A DIE DIE DIE! As sad as I feel that a good chunk of these characters will be dying soon, I've got some great stuff planned and I'm excited to get the games into full swing. As usual, it'll probably take a while. I mean, it's the bloodbath. I don't want to do it averagely. Until then, here are the launch rooms. Stay tuned!**

* * *

_You better lose yourself in the music, the moment_

_You own it, you better never let it go_

_You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow_

_This opportunity comes once in a lifetime you better_

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

The utter silence is the most disturbing thing of all. Not the harsh white lights of the room, not the long shadow of the rack holding my uniform, not even the little desktop with a single piece of paper and a pen. Absolutely everything is padded. Wouldn't want sharp corners tempting any hopeless outliers.

I've been sitting on the plasticky white bench for I don't know how long when the air conditioning kicks in, jets of freezing cold air that issue seemingly from nowhere. A sign from the Capitol, no doubt. _Starting getting ready or you'll regret it._

Is it really? Am I overthinking such things? Thoughts race through my head at lightning speed. Just one more would probably kill me.

It's certainly difficult, but it's possible to remain calm throughout the pre-games festivities. If you can keep your cool at the reaping, on the train, in the training center, and during your interview, it's possible to develop this false image of how ready you are. That's what I did. Every time I made the audience laugh, every time I won a minor victory, a piece of a giant image fell into place: an image that spells out "I'm ready".

It lies. Absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for this.

I stand up and stretch, barely able to coordinate my limbs properly due to shaking. At the lemon cookie machine, aligning the cookie with my mouth takes numerous attempts. In the time leading up to my death, my heart beats faster than ever before, dutifully keeping me alive.

I don't even hesitate to say those words in my head. Then I say them out loud. I say them over and over and over.

"I'm going to die." And I accept them immediately. For the first time, they feel completely real.

But no! I'm supposed to fight to stay alive, fight to win, fight to keep breathing!

"No," I say, as loudly as I can muster. My voice quivers and cracks with the single syllable. It's the fakest syllable I've ever uttered.

I run the rough black jacket through my hands, turning it inside-out before putting it on; the material is clearly meant to deflect heat. When I start to sweat, I know I've made the right choice. The plasticky black boots remind me of something you'd wear in a rainstorm.

Still quivering, I near the cookie machine and stuff at least a dozen more down my throat. I'm still just as hungry as I was before: do the cookies lack nutritional value, or am I just nervous? Of course I'm nervous. I'm terrified because I'm going to die.

Monita, Gray, and Bryndle don't cross my mind as I pace anxiously around the room. Then I sit down on the bench and start to think. The thought of death hovers over me like a blanket. What will it feel like? How much will it hurt? I struggle to breathe under its grip. It's ten seconds before I'm literally crying.

"Sixty seconds until launch."

My eyes dart to the clock, and I rub the back of my neck, groaning. The minute hand sits on 59. It's 5:59 A.M. The red second hand continues to dutifully glide around the clock.

"Forty-five seconds until launch."

I try to stand up, but my legs won't allow me. No. No, no, no. I won't get up. I can't get up. I'm going to run to that door and break it down and run away. I won't enter the Hunger Games.

But I will. And I'm going to. And as the voice announces thirty seconds until launch, I know it's no use biding my time. Suddenly able to move, I step into the glass tube and close my eyes, allowing myself to float off into space.

* * *

_These days I haven't been sleeping_

_Staying up playing back myself leaving_

_When your birthday passed and I didn't call_

_And I think about summer, all the beautiful times_

_I watched you laughing from the passenger side_

_And realized I'd loved you in the fall_

_And then the cold came, the dark days when fear crept into my mind_

_You gave me all your love and all I gave you was goodbye_

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie**

**District 11 Female**

After I've taken the final red pill, there's nothing left to do but wait.

It's all said and done. I've eaten all the lemon cookies my stomach can carry, I've put on my tribute uniform, and I've taken the last pill. I feel like I've been moving down a checklist ever since the reaping. People to talk to, places to be, things to get down. Now that I've reached the end of the list, everything is shrouded with mystery.

Up until this point, my life was laid out hour-by-hour. From this point onward, that won't be the case. I lie down on the padded bench and try to still my rapid breathing. May as well savor the final moment of order.

My wandering eyes land on the desk. It's tinted brown, and off-white color that's actually quite pleasing. I head over to the padded green wheelie chair and close the pen in my fingers. Will I be able to form coherent words and sentences? I hope so.

I spend at least a minute staring at the plain white paper. I have no idea what to write.

Another minute. And a third minute. By the time I look up at the clock, ten minutes have passed. It's now 5:53. Seven minutes until launch.

_District 11. _That's all I write down.

I head over to the machine and swallow one last lemon cookie. I lie down again, facedown because I can't bear to look at the light. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The breath shakes and rattles both ways, in and out.

What must it feel like to die? It's a generic question, but it keeps my mind occupied. Anything to focus on. I try to remember the last time I fell asleep comfortably. It seems like a million years. I laid there under the blankets, cool night air on my face. My breathing was drowned out by the trickling of the creek. Next thing, the sun was in the sky and all of that was nothing but memories. I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep until I'd woken up. But if that nothingness had no end, if it stretched on forever…

Forever. My mind jumps back in time to a story I was told when I was young. Beatrice, the nice girl at the bookstore, lended it to me because I liked the pictures. I asked a friend to read some of the words aloud:

_Far north of here, there is a great rock. It is a hundred miles high and a hundred miles wide. Every thousand years, a little bird taps her beak on the rock. When it is thus worn away, the rock is replenished and a single drop of water is removed from the great sea. When it is thus completely dried, the seas are replenished and a single sheet of paper is added to a pile. Even when that pile reaches the stars, not a single instant of "forever" can be said to have passed._

Forever. I get tired of trying to comprehend it, so I give up.

"Sixty seconds until launch."

I don't say anything as I step into the glass tube. There's nothing to say. Nobody to exchange words with but myself, and even she probably wouldn't listen.

* * *

_You told me you love me_

_Why did you leave me all alone_

_Now you tell me you need me_

_When you call me on the phone_

_Girl, I refuse_

_You must have me confused with some other guy_

_The bridges were burned_

_Now it's your turn, to cry_

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

Elevators don't move sideways and they don't accelerate at the speed of a train. I'm most definitely not in an elevator.

The vehicle comes to a screaming halt, making my stomach turn. I grab onto the handlebar. I can't tell if I'm trembling more from the wild ride or from fear of what's ahead. As the circular wall begins to lower, I decide it's the latter.

For a solid five seconds, I don't see anything. The only sensory input other than the breathing and foot stamping of the other tributes is the cold. I start to turn my coat inside out but change my mind when my arms are halfway out of the sleeves. The last thing I want is for the thing to drop.

The ground is made of rock. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I make out strange sculptures and carvings standing out of the stone, slabs of jet-black rock engraved with nonsensical symbols. The thick clouds are a deep, muddy red; the sun is clearly out, but the tightly-knit blanket of clouds keeps its light from shining through.

The cornucopia, which is earthy and laden with moss, is connected to each pedestal by a line of glowing blue rocks, making a shape like a wagon wheel. Torch lit, the various supplies surrounding the horn are illuminated by nothing but an eerie red glow. The same blue rocks litter the place, forming large piles and sometimes blocking one another's light. The way the paths of the rocks seem to bend with distance implies we stand at the top of a hill or mountain. The heavy wind suggests something similar.

The flashing countdown above the cornucopia reaches 10. The last thing I hear before the gong is a bone-chilling howl that rolls over the stone landscape like thunder.


	37. The Bloodbath

**A/N: Here it is at last: the 113th annual Hunger Games! I said this for Broken, and I'll say it again: PLEASE do not take personal offense if your tribute dies. Some seriously great characters shatter in this chapter and making these decisions was seriously painful. Are we cool? Thanks. Hope you enjoy the chapter, as sad as it might be! Eulogies are at the bottom.**

**Note: There aren't song lyrics before the POVs, just because there are a lot of them, they change rapidly sometimes, and ultimately I just don't want things to look cluttered. Every tribute who survives the bloodbath will get a new song, and there will be less Taylor Swift this time, I promise ;)**

* * *

**Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt**

**District 11 Male**

I dash off of my pedestal as soon as the gong sounds, streaks of blue and red blurring around me as I dash toward the cornucopia. Some tributes run for the horn strategically, zigzagging or curving around the strong tributes to make themselves a less likely target. I planned to do something similar, but all of the careful plans I made slip from my mind amidst the sheer rush of adrenaline.

I take a deep breath, training my eyes on the horn. Right now, my only two goals are to get closer to that thing and not get killed.

When I reach the first ring of supplies, I freeze in place, my eyes darting back and forth. The others are mere silhouettes against the red clouds. They sprint, tumble, and trip, groaning and hyperventilating in panic.

What am I doing? I should be gathering supplies. I remember Gwyneth and Newton. I'll feel safer once I find them, no doubt. Before then, I need at least one backpack, or at least something useful.

I bend over and snatch up the first thing I see. A little black net. Might be helpful for keeping mosquitoes off of the arms or face at night. I doubt this arena has such insects, and even if it did, they would be the least of my problems. I decide to move closer to the cornucopia, where things are more valuable. It's a big risk, but if I land something worthwhile I know it'll be worth it.

Fifteen more seconds of running bring me to a little orange backpack. Yes! I bend over to pick it up, but freeze halfway through the fell swoop. The first scream. It belongs to a little girl: a very, very little girl. She might be five years old.

About ten meters up ahead, tiny Suzuki lies on her back like a child mid-tantrum. Midas stands over her. The little girl flails her fists and lets out one scream after another. The rocky terrain absorbs absolutely no sound, so each tiny whimper echoes around like thunder. Midas has her ankles pinned down as he traces his spear down her chest. He's taunting her, really. Playing with his food.

"Let me go!" she screams. "I'll stay out of your way! I promise!"

"Oh, I know you will."

Her voice starts to crack. A few meters to my left, another tribute, Bryndle I think, has stopped to watch the scene. By this point, Suzuki's face is a violent red color. Tears and streaks of blood cover her face completely.

That's when I turn away; I can't bring myself to watch the moment of the killing. There's the crunching of bone, the squishing of blood. Then the screams stop.

"Ed! What the hell are you waiting for?"

I leap at the noise of Gwyneth's voice. My allies rush to my side, both Newton and Gwyneth already covered with sweat and laden with collected supplies. I can't help but be embarrassed. While they've been working hard, all I've been doing is standing here and watching some poor little girl's death.

It's not my fault, I remind myself. It's a comforting excuse. I literally couldn't look away. Now that the death is over, I find myself able to move again.

"Run," Newton murmurs. Then they're gone.

"What?"

The point of Midas' spear flies out of the darkness before I have time to breathe.

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

Alright. All that bullshit is over. I'm done playing the cute little girl who loves cats. I'm in the Hunger Games now, and that means it's time for murder.

When the gong rings, I sprint toward the horn and grab the first weapon I can find: a long, thin sword. It isn't the spear I was hoping for, but it's something for me to hold onto until I can find something I like better.

I try to keep up with the progress of the others. Midas stands to my far right, offing Suzuki while two outliers watch, dumbfounded with shock. Moments later, Midas charges at one of the onlookers, killing Edamame before he can scream. Bryndle races away as fast as her legs can carry her, but is followed by Kennedy in hot pursuit.

Upon reaching the horn, I find a spear that fits into my grip like it was made for me. It probably was. Gaius races up behind me and gestures for the sword, which I toss to him. The spear is my true talent. Outliers, prepare for the end.

It's interesting to watch how the various sects of outliers take on the bloodbath. Heather and Fawn stick close together, while the four boys—Dock, Gary, Arien, and Turner—move around more loosely. That quartet is a pretty attractive target, but taking it on by myself isn't a good idea: waiting for just a few moments, when two or even three careers can gang up to take them down, is a better bet.

That's when I see them, standing in front of the horn, silhouetted against the cornucopia's faint glow. Jack and Jill. The beloved best friends from District 7, James Smith and Trixana Faust.

My feet are moving ten seconds before my mind has time to catch up. My instinct really is quite like a cat.

"Holy shit!" James shouts as I pounce. Trixana tugs him out of the way, and the district partners stagger backward, eyes wide with terror. They are all but unarmed: James wields a flimsy hatchet, while Trixana's hands are completely empty. She shakily scoops up a little blue rock. That isn't going to save your life, sweetie.

"Go, go, go!" Trixana murmurs as I charge. Kennedy, who must have given up her pursuit of Bryndle, races to my side. "I get the boy. You get the girl," I mutter.

Kennedy groans. "I'll get them both. Honey, you can fuck yourself."

I knew this kind of thing would be difficult. I'm going to catch up to them, and I'm going to kill both of them. I have to prove myself, and I have to do it soon. I need to show them all that there's a not-so-adorable streak in me.

The noises of the bloodbath begin to fade as Kennedy and I chase the allied 7s across the treacherous, rocky landscape.

* * *

**Trixana Faust, 17 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 7 Female**

"Don't look back." It's hard to talk clearly when I'm running this fast; when my heart is beating this hard. Every inch of my skin crawls with terror.

"They're going to catch up!" James shouts. "There's nothing we can do."

"Keep running."

"No."

"Keep running! Keep running!"

James and I collapse at the same moment. "Keep running" is literally impossible now. Not with the footsteps of the career girls getting nearer. Not with the howling of the wind to horrify us into motion.

"Look what we have here," Kennedy muses, carefully observing us. She has one of the blue rocks bound to her chest like a flashlight.

Kennedy and Jade stalk closer. With each footstep, my composure falls away. Slowly at first, then with a roaring torrent of panic.

I completely lose awareness of my surroundings as the screams begin. I refuse to believe they're mine, and not only because I can't feel myself creating them. The belief that I could ever make a sound so terrible chills me to the deepest core of my spirit. It's humiliating. I feel like an animal helplessly cornered by a hunter. Because right now, I am not Trixana Faust. There is no me, only a shadow of me, a girl who screams and screams as she watches the cat girl skewer her spear through her district partner.

"James!"

That's all I have time to say before Kennedy bears down on me, rearing up and brandishing her sword so that it glistens in the icy blue light. "This one should be easy," she mutters.

It only hurts for a minute. Then there is only a quiet humming sensation.

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

"What have you got?" Arien asks frantically.

"A backpack, a sleeping bag, I don't know," Gary responds.

I groan. "Did anyone else think to pick up a weapon?"

"I did," Turner holds up two wicked-looking hunting knives.

"I have a knife for each of you," I say as I had out the weapons, keeping the sharpest one for myself. "Where's the food?"

The others stare back at me in terror.

"Food. Go get some. Arien has enough water to last us all a few days. Someone get food, and then we can get the fuck out."

"Why aren't you searching?" Gary shouts.

"I have been! Now do you want us to live or do you want us to die?"

Turner returns with a few packs of dried beef strips. "The beef strips are all I could find. This is bad. Really, really bad."

Soon enough, Arien has collected a few. It's clear: the dried beef is the only food at the cornucopia.

"What? You two allergic or something?"

"Dried beef dehydrates you," Turner says. "When the cornucopia has dried beef, it means there's almost no water in the arena. Remember the 108th games? Remember the…"

"Could you shut up?" I shout. I can't believe this group. Turner does nothing but spout meaningless facts about past games, Arien is too busy spooling on about star-crossed lovers to care about combat, and Gary makes the most unnecessary jokes.

The instant Gary lets out a loud gasp, I know we've taken too long to flee.

"Go!" I shout as Gary falls onto his back. I can't tell how much of the blood on Midas' sword belongs to Gary and how much of it belongs to Midas' past victims. The 1 boy has already peppered numerous small-to-medium holes in Gary's abdomen, with no signs of stopping in sight.

"Go!" I shout again. And of course, these idiots have frozen in place to watch the killing as it plays out. I can't believe them sometimes.

* * *

**Gary Redwire, 13 / AlexFalTon**

**District 8 Male**

Things blur together. The world doesn't spin around me, like everyone says it does when you're dying. It's more of a flicker, a kind of glow that morphs and slowly dies while the sound of the ocean gets louder and louder.

The hand that belongs to Arien reaches down and tries to help me. He should be running. Shouldn't he know I'm beyond saving?

The good stands at my feet, while the evil stands at my head. The evil spear has already taken the good from me. The touch of Arien's good makes everything smoother. The light stops flickering, turning to more a gradual fade. I can see less and less, only barely having the consciousness to watch Dock tug Arien and Turner away.

Goodbye, friends. Goodbye, Panem, District 8, drugs, Mr. Rella's poetry class. I've had such a great time with you all. I've had _such_ a great, great time.

* * *

**Vista Juarez, 18 / 2017tnt**

**District 4 Female**

The five of us gather at the mouth of the cornucopia. Jade has a spear; Midas, Gaius, and Kennedy hold swords, and I clutch a bow in my grasp. A quiver of arrows is slung over my shoulder. I have yet to make a kill, but I am determined to do so before the bloodbath comes to a close. There's no point being ready for the games proper if you don't survive to them.

"What are we doing, team?" Jade asks.

Midas takes charge. As arrogant as he can be, I'll admit he's an astounding leader. "Gaius and Kennedy, head for the pedestals. Jade and I will search the cornucopia field. Vista, make sure there aren't any stragglers hiding in the horn. You know how that happens."

Midas also has the gift of keeping order in a group. We all rush to do as we're told without complaining.

I arrive at the horn in a matter of moments. Lo and behold, two girl stand inside. I can't really call them silhouettes, because the blue glow of the horn comes from everywhere, illuminating them faintly from all directions. Still, I'm unable to tell exactly who they are.

"Hide!" one of them hisses. They stay close together as they rush deeper into the horn, hiding behind a stack of empty black crates, long since pilfered of their contents. "Find a weapon, a rock, anything," one of the girls whispers.

Clearly, the girls don't think I've seen them.

I take a moment to pause, letting my eyes fall on the horn's supplies. Virtually everything has been taken, more so than usual. Overturned crates and crumpled tables litter the place. Of course, quite a bit of it is covered in blood.

There's no use wasting my time any longer. I draw my bow, arrow at the ready as I creep into the horn. Then I fire into the darkness.

* * *

**Neveah Sunshine, 17 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 9 Female**

A jolt physically trills through me as the arrow lands in Heaven's chest.

"You're not dying." That's all I can say at first.

"You're not dying. You can't be."

But she is dying. And if she's dying, I'm dying too.

"You're going to be alright. It'll all be alright. I… I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"

"Neveah," Heaven murmurs. "Quiet."

"We're dying." She is we.

"Quiet. Quiet. Just listen to the wind."

I can't imagine the pain she must be feeling, yet she stays quiet. I feel nothing of the kind. All I do is lie down with her and slowly feel our body fail while Heaven shakes rapidly. Seeing her like that—it's a fate worse than death, really.

"The wind," she says again. "It sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"It does." My voice is weaker than I ever thought it could be. The tears seem to be physically shaking me, even though I know that's not possible.

"I love you."

"I love you."

I rest a hand on her heart. It beats along with mine in near-perfect synchrony, just like it has for seventeen years. I feel her heartbeat stop, and I know I'm gone too. It's possible for me to be gone even though my own heart is still beating. Soon enough, I'll be gone all the way, just like her.

Empty. Lie back, head hits the stone. It's all very, very quiet.

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

"Alright," Gray grunts. "Where the hell is Bryndle?"

"Kept my eyes peeled for her. No sightings," I say.

"I saw her," Rocky says. "One of the careers chased her away."

The word "deserter" hangs on my lips. I try to remind myself that Bryndle didn't abandon us on purpose. Even so, it's hard not to be heartbroken. I've told myself not to get too attached to my allies, but the experience of the games already binds us like oath. Missing her feels like missing part of myself.

If things are already this hard, I can't imagine how hard it'll be to snatch the victor's crown.

"I'm getting out of here," Gray says. "We aren't waiting for her forever."

"Seconded," I say. "This is exhausting."

"Hey. This was your plan."

"Doesn't mean I can't have regrets."

But then Gray is charging, with Rocky and I following close behind, and it's too late for regrets. We burst around the side of the horn, and there's an unspoken agreement to run without looking back rather than fight. If we're fast enough, maybe—just maybe—we can make it away without being noticed.

The careers are distracted; they surround a small boy with dark hair, who lies on the ground writhing in pain. But that isn't a good enough distraction.

"Hey!" a career shouts, and we break into an even faster sprint.

We're quickly overtaken. Gray has the lead; if he wanted to, he could easily make it to safety unscathed. Rocky and I are much less lucky. In a matter of moments, I'm trapped between Midas and Vista, while Jade and Gaius work to corner Rocky. Kennedy circles the scene like a vulture.

Rocky lets out a battle cry and flings his mace in Jade's direction. The 1 girl reels, yelping with pain. Gaius takes a quick moment to help her up. I'm surprised by the display of loyalty, but everything else disappears as I catch a glance of a charging Midas from the corner of my eye.

I have two knives, which keep Midas at bay for long enough. Still, he has the longer weapon; I can only hold him off for so long before he starts poking holes in me. Let's hope that doesn't happen.

Everything happens in slow motion as Gray starts roaring in pain. Based on the scene, he must have run back to help Rocky, which was his fatal mistake. The mute boy, Gaius, has already begun slashing. Horror pans over Gray's expression as he takes a backward tumble, grunting as his head hits the ground. Gaius slashes and slashes. Rocky races to his aid, but there's no use. Gray Golas is beyond saving.

Rocky's face turns a violent shade of scarlet, reminiscent of the clouds overhead. Rage turns tributes into unstoppable murderers, and with all the malice of Cato Hadley, Rocky slams Gaius squarely in the chest with his spiked mace. It surprises me that Gaius is able to yell, but he is, a noise that trembles and rolls. The noise is far too deep to say it warbles.

And Rocky keeps going. He bludgeons Gaius in every way I can think of and a dozen ways I can't. "Fuck you," he mutters as the career falls still.

And then Rocky has distracted one of my own attackers, tackling Vista with surprising confidence. I manage to smack Midas in the mouth hard enough to send him reeling. Vista shrieks as Rocky sends her tumbling.

"Monita," Rocky grunts. "We're leaving."

We are. I pat my shoulders just to make sure I'm still carrying all of the supplies I've gathered. Then I follow Rocky away into the dark unknown.

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

"Bastard."

Midas groans as he gets to his feet. He's alive; Gaius isn't. It takes him a few moments to realize that Gaius isn't moving, but when he does, he's on Bernie faster than lightning.

"That bastard! That bastard!"

It's the law of the games that the careers should gather around to watch the last death of the bloodbath. Outliers dread it. Sometimes they'll even make an effort to kill themselves to avoid being the last one.

In any case, I doubt we could've put on much of a show with Bernie. He makes very little effort to fight back and he doesn't really scream. It's hard not to be shocked by his sheer composure. Sheer composure or sheer stupidity, it's all the same.

I don't stick around to watch Midas take out his wrath on the little pyromaniac from District 3. I have business to get done.

I tear a little knife out of my belt and dart toward Vista, holding it to her throat. I clamp a hand over her mouth. "Make one noise, fight back, and I'll kill you."

Her bow falls from her hand. Sometimes it's hilariously convenient, how badly tributes' senses and instincts fail themselves when they need them most.

We've travelled about ten seconds when Vista realizes what's going on, and I slide the blade into her neck. She's too loopy to make any noise: I've had her airways covered for at least a minute now and death must be close.

"This is our little secret, honey."

I shove her off the side of the slope, trying not to breathe too loudly so I can hear her tumbling corpse. The noise continues for a while: she's long gone. Long, long gone.

_Hasta la vista._

* * *

**THE SHATTERED**

**24th: Suzuki Nox, District 6 Female – Speared, by Midas**

This girl was a sweetheart, wasn't she? She had a great arc going, what with Peugeot and her altogether innocence. If the arena was a forest, there's absolutely no doubt she would have fled at the gong and saved her own life. But these games are going to have a very particular story, and I've never felt as though Suzuki had a place in that story.

**23rd: Edamame Stanton, District 11 Male – Speared, by Midas**

I struggled with writing this guy, and sometimes I thought it showed through to your side of the glass. In most of his scenes, he felt like a kind of third wheel to Newton and Gwyneth, who are both still alive and being much more than just friendly (hint hint). He had an interesting personality, a great interview costume, and some good potential, but he just got lost in the sea of amazing characters.

**22nd: James Smith, District 7 Male – Bled to death from spear wound, inflicted by Jade**

Isn't it fun to surprise readers? I bet nobody was expecting James and Trixana to die during the bloodbath, and this was the first death that hurt me as a writer when I was fleshing out the chapter. It might have been fear on my own part that led to his death. I felt like I focused so much on his gayness that I neglected to develop him properly as a character, and I didn't want to keep him alive just for his arc, as interesting as it might have been. And yes, I'm as grateful as you are that Jade isn't annoying anymore.

**21st: Trixana Faust, District 7 Female – Slashed with sword, by Kennedy**

The loyal friend, the absolute Hufflepuff. From the moment she volunteered, she was always searching for something, searching so feverishly. Was it the thrill of the games? Was it the attention she never got from her dad or from God? I know this girl was beloved among you guys, but she was never my victor.

**20th: Gary Redwire, District 8 Male – Bled to death by spear wound, inflicted by Midas**

Not quite Hopper Vigo status, but a nice comic relief character nonetheless. I must admit I had the time of my life writing out his scenes. Watching the stress of the pre-games gradually crush him like a can was a sad experience, sure, but it'll be interesting to find out how his allies cope with his death. Now he might, just maybe, find out whether those stars really are other worlds.

**19th: Neveah Sunshine, District 9 Female – Twin shot with arrow, by Vista**

Rue much? I loved these girls as much as all of you did, but so many rule ambiguities were brought up by their mere existence that I felt it necessary to end them this early. Even if they had survived, the gamemakers would no doubt have snubbed them victory. Nevertheless, their case was an interesting first that will go down in Hunger Games history.

**18th: Gray Golas, District 9 Male – Slashed with sword, by Gaius**

One of the anti-careers was always going to die. I just hadn't decided who it was until very recently. The thing I loved most about Gray was his maturity. He knew how things were going on, ultimately dying in an attempt to save his closest friend. Forgiving his childhood bully in front of the nation no doubt gained him some traction with the public, but alas, not every beloved tribute can survive the bloodbath.

**17th: Gaius Alabaster, District 2 Male – Bludgeoned with mace, by Rocky**

Gaius was great to write. I have no choice but to stan diversity, and this character was a great writing experience that I will always be thankful for. I really wanted to keep him for a while, but it just wasn't meant to be. In a way, the characters that die this early are the lucky ones. The struggle is over for them. It's just beginning for the others.

**16th: Bernie Tropello, District 3 Male – Speared, by Midas**

What can be said about this kid that hasn't been said a million times before? I'm sure most of us knew he was going to die early. Still, writing out his descent into depression and suicidal intent has been one of the sadder plotlines of this story thus far. Trust me, I'd love to see what chaos he can make with fire. However, it's always the Capitol's job to stamp out of the coals of rebellion. He could never have made it far.

**15th: Vista Juarez, District 4 Female – Decapitated, by Kennedy**

What we're meant to take from this death is that Kennedy has quite a bit up her sleeves. How she'll continue is for time to tell. I prized Vista as a character for her intelligence and level-headedness, like the calm ocean at dawn in relation to Dock's tempest. I considered keeping her around the most strongly of anyone who shattered here, but it just was not meant to be. And yes, I've been waiting to use that pun ever since the reaping.

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner**

**5: Gwyneth, Newton**

**Let's Hate Everyone Together: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle  
**


	38. Day 1: What Do You Say?

**A/N: This story is getting long! Seriously, the games have just begun, and we're almost to the complete length of Broken. The games are officially in full swing, with the fourteen remaining tributes scattering around the arena. They have no idea what's coming for them. Seriously, these games are going to be awful. Now that we're to the real meat of the story, POVs will be longer and overall more interesting (I hope lol). Every day will be split into multiple chapters, so this isn't the entirety of the first day. Anyway, enjoy these POVs of Rocky and Gwyneth :D**

**P.S. I randomly remembered a review from liliblossoms saying that different characters gave her different Hogwarts house vibes. To the Potterheads reading this: if you were to sort these characters into the four houses, where would you place them? A random thought, but I want to see what you come up with.**

**P.S.S. So many of these chapters have a P.S. that I might as well make the P.S. part of the author's note itself. Oh well.**

* * *

_Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down_

_By the enemy._

_Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing_

_Bow down to the mighty._

_Don't run, stop holding your tongue._

_Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live,_

_Maybe one of these days you can let the light in,_

_Show me how big your brave is._

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

What do you say when you and one other member of your four-person alliance just narrowly evaded death at the hands of five sociopathic killers? I'm lost for words as Monita and I jog away from the cornucopia.

The thick blanket of clouds is a brighter shade of red than ever before, which implies it's around noon. My internal clock tells me something similar. Being completely separated from everything that helped you keep yourself in order is more than a little shocking, I'll admit, and I'm not just talking about time. Showers, effectively infinite food supply – it's all really, really shocking. But I can't let myself get caught up in old times. That's a great way to lose my will to live.

And the will to live is extremely valuable. Even weak, defenseless tributes without a weapon, without a skill in the world – if they have the will to live, they're halfway there. That's how I see the world. That's how I've been forced to see it. _My family will eat today, _I always told myself. Willing something into reality is a great way to make it happen. It doesn't make sense, but it works.

While we were at the horn, the weather and the angle of the ground made it seem like we were at the very top of a mountain or similar feature. Monita and I have found it to be more of a saddle, steep at first, then levelling out to flat ground.

"You know what's funny?" Monita says, breaking the silence. "I don't know what to make of this arena."

"I do," I say, and laugh a little. "And if I were to write about it, the entire essay would be the word _NO _in black ooze."

Monita rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant. I mean, sure, it's terrifying. But I don't know what kind of terrifying."

"The deadly kind."

"There aren't spikes," Monita says, stopping to spread her arms, "and there haven't been any signs of mutts thus far, except for that first howl, which was probably meant to scare us more than anything. This place is more barren than anything. Too bare to feel dangerous—for any reason other than just because it's dark."

I want to agree that the gamemakers are just trying to confuse and terrify us, but keep quiet. It isn't like the gamemakers have their eyes on us right now—we're doing nothing interesting—but still, it isn't the time for big risks just yet.

We're pretty well-off. I have my mace and Monita has her spear, which I can't help but envy because it's the much lighter weapon. We have a decent food supply too, and some medicine in case things go wrong, which they most certainly will come hell.

But I'm starting to feel thirsty. And I don't know how long we can keep walking until our single shared thermos runs out.

"Worrying about water as much as I am?" Monita asks, and it's a relief I have someone to talk to. To make things just a smidge more bearable.

"Yes."

While talking can make things more bearable, the pain of thirst is a hard thing to distract myself from, and talking about water isn't going to cut it. We actually need the clear stuff. Five minutes later, I give into the urge and ask Monita for a sip. I drink just a tiny bit more than I'm supposed to. Now it's just over halfway empty.

"Well, if there's water, it's down here. Gravity and everything," Monita says.

And, as if on cue, my feet land in ankle-deep, freezing-cold water. "Speak of the devil." And it's the biggest relief of my life. I stare at the large lake for two seconds, and my heart sinks. "No."

"No," Monita agrees.

It's a picture of death. I realize it must be an extremely large lake, because waves crash against the shore and there is literally a beach of bones stretching left and right before disappearing into the foggy shroud. The fog rising from the lake has an earthy, watery smell. But something is off about the stench, like an image flipped in a mirror. It's the calmest water I've ever seen, and the lack of light makes the surface look like black glass. Sharp stones protrude from the water, forming clusters of dry land reminiscent of spikes. The kind that makes a ship sink.

"There is a zero percent chance that water is safe to drink," says Monita.

"We'll never know until…" Our eyes meet.

Monita tilts her head. "Not it."

"As soon as our thermos is empty, we can fill it up with this stuff. Then we can test it slowly to see if it's deadly or not. Anyway, I need a break. Let's sit down and go through our things. Hopefully we grabbed something helpful."

And we did. In addition to my spear, I got a few knives, coils of rope and wire, a magnifying glass (like the sun is bright enough to start a fire), and…"

"Holy Stinn, I have a flashlight."

I can't help myself from slipping two batteries into the device and flicking the switch. Monita squints as the beam lands on her face, which is covered with sweat and grime.

"Sorry." I tuck it into my pocket. "What did you find?"

"A lot of food and a big plastic sheet."

"Food is always a good thing."

"And the sheet? I doubt we'll find the opportunity to make a slip 'n slide in the near future."

"Hold onto it. You never know what might come in handy."

Things come to a standstill as we dig into the dried beef. As soon as I taste the salt, I recognize the gamemakers' trick. I've always heard of people kicking themselves, and I thought it was silly, but I literally pinch myself.

"Dried beef dehydrates you."

Monita scowls. "You don't say." And when she reaches for the thermos, it's completely empty.

We've got to investigate this lake. At least fill the thermos with the water and check for obvious signs of contamination. The thought crosses my mind that getting some iodine from the bloodbath might have been nice.

"I'm not touching that." Monita crosses their arms. I grab the clear thermos and dip it in the water. Part of me expects my hand to burn or decay at the touch of the evil water, but it just feels like cold water. Figuring I'm not going to die, I dip the entire thing under and then screw on the cap. Then I set it between us.

"Shine the flashlight on it," Monita says. "See what it looks like."

I put the light to the bottle. "Holy shit."

The liquid is literally a glossy black color. Eerily similar to ink. "I don't know what that is, but it isn't water."

I like the way we talk—like friends. So, so different from the way we talked in the training center. That train of thought gets me thinking about Gray and Bryndle. Bryndle especially. She just disappeared. Deserted, maybe, but I doubt it was intentional. I saw her chased away by Kennedy early on in the bloodbath. If she died, Monita and I will find out tonight. Until then, fretting is no use. If she finds us again, great. If not, one more competitor doesn't make a huge difference. Or one less, if she's dead. Which she very likely might be.

I start to lift the thermos, then stop as my mind kicks in. There's a difference between being brave and being stupid. I'm not drinking straight out of that thing.

"Do you have a dropper?" I ask, referencing the little tool kit Monita just unearthed from her orange backpack.

"I don't think so. Let me check."

Lo and behold, Monita hands me a little pipette. I unscrew the thermos' cap, carefully measure out some of the liquid. And I'm surprised to see the pipette filled with completely clear water; liquid fits into the tiny hole of the pipette, while whatever colors the water black is unable to slip through.

I drip it into my mouth, and it's extremely refreshing.

Monita sits in silence for a few moments, waiting for me to die. I don't, and she's fast to drip as much as she can into her mouth once she accepts it's safe for consumption. The water is practically freezing cold, which makes it an extremely satisfying treat.

"There's gotta be a more efficient way to do this," Monita says as she moves her hand back and forth between the thermos and her mouth.

"Yeah. But we're working with what we've got. That's something we're both good at."

* * *

_I had fifteen year dances, church basement romances_

_Yeah, I've cried._

_Spilling my guts with the Bowery bums_

_Is the only love I've ever known,_

_Except for the stage, which I also call home_

_When I'm not_

_Serving up God in a burnt coffee pot for the triad._

* * *

**Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18 / LiveFreeOrDie**

**District 5 Female**

I can't see my feet while I walk, and that bothers me. Keeping my head down is how I spent most of my time back home. It's how I got past peacekeepers without being questioned. It's how I avoided being mugged and raped every day of my life on the streets. When I looked at them so much, my feet always felt like my friends. Even at night, I could see them. This arena is even darker than night, which is strange, because at eye-level I can distinguish Newt's outline clearly. I try not to confuse myself wondering how that works.

We make fast progress over the lightening field of barren rock. Newt looks more and more worn out by the hour. I feel something similar, but do my best to ignore it. I've gotten pretty good at that. I have an advantage that way.

Newt wordlessly motions for the thermos, and I hand it over, pretending not to notice that he drinks much more than he's supposed to. I've been doing it too. The cold is very dehydrating, in a way.

"Doing alright?" Newt asks.

"Well enough," I respond. Our voices sound similar. Everyone's voices do when they're hushed, weakened. And it feels like some sort of connection. We're both suffering through this together.

"We'd better take a break soon," Newt says, and it's difficult to say no. My muscles ache with every motion.

It takes me ten seconds to respond. "No. The careers are probably out. It's too dangerous to stay still just yet. But…"

"But what?"

"But if I had to choose between death by knife and exhaustion, I think we can both agree the knife would be a lot faster."

I let Newt drink some more water, then suggest we start looking for a nice place to stop. Water would be preferable, and I admit I'm a little picky at first. But five-star hotels are pretty scarce in these areas, so we settle on this little flat space between two spiky rock columns.

"Homey." That's all he says, his voice hollow.

The warm, honeylike bliss of relaxation makes me forget about the shivers and my thirst for just a little while. I actually laugh as I lie back, sighing as the backpack slips off of my shoulders. How about we lie here forever, side by side?

_Shit._

Nope. Not happening. No snuggles or smooches for this gal. But that gets me thinking, and—I never thought I'd say this—I wouldn't complain if he got closer.

The thing about romance in the games is that it never ends well. Every games in history has had one victor, a formula that doesn't bode well for partnerships. I know what they say about love – it's irresistible, bla bla bla. It's idiots that let it distract them at the bad times. Such as right now.

Lying around gets me thinking about my past, the parts I've gradually closed out of my memory with the years. Instead of being covered with dust like the top of an old shelf that's never touched, the memories are quite fresh when I reach them, like something bright closed between book pages.

The man from the Thieving Magpie, whose name and face I still remember after all this time, stands out the most clearly in my memory. He was reading a newspaper when I walked in, clutching the paper in his left hand with a drink in his right. It took me a while to get his attention, so long I considered giving up.

Casual conversation isn't usually my strong spot, but when the situation is so precarious, you sort of have to power through things without looking back. I recall the frosty crunch of the stone pathway we took home. I remember the icy chill of the rain.

He really did have the worst breath.

_Justice, not payback. _That's what I've been telling myself all these years.

What the hell does a barely pubescent girl do when there's a dead body in her house? She runs. I can't remember exactly what I packed with me when I hit the streets with no intent of returning home. I know I can't expect my brain to hold onto such things, but I remember so much of those days that it's a bit shocking. This little gap in the experience.

"What time do you think it is?"

It's not until I open my eyes that I realize I've shut them. "Still morning." That's all I can say for a while. "It's still getting brighter."

"And warmer," Newt notes, and I guess I am shivering a bit less than I was when this whole thing started.

I have a lot to be thankful for right now. First of all, the arena isn't terribly deadly all by itself. It's hard to say something like that when it's literally pitch dark before noon and everything is made out of freezing cold stone. But I have to be glad this isn't a burning desert or a tundra or a big palace with only stone maces, or a big net of stretchy yarn or a giant replica of the human body (yes, those have all actually happened before. Don't ask me, the gamemakers have some crazy thoughts).

And I'm grateful to have an ally. I'm grateful for Newt, and I'm grateful for the way he makes me forget about the loss of Edamame. I try to keep the list going, but things get hard. All of that is just being optimistic if I ever say to myself that only one of us can get out of this arena.

We lie there for a while, just me and him, and I kind of let everything envelop me as the thoughts disappear like butterflies, like a cloud of dust or smoke. It isn't just the exhaustion that makes relaxation feel so good.

"Newt?"

His coat scratches against the ground, and I think I've woken him from a light nap.

"I need to tell you something. A long story."

I think he deserves to know about my past. Having someone to open up to really feels so nice. Especially when a sizable portion of my life has been spent skirting around seedy back streets. Getting out the entire story takes a while. I imagine the cameras are trained on us, with all of those Capitolites screaming "Kiss! Kiss!" while they shovel themselves with whatever extravagant food they eat. Out loud, I tell him some made up story about my made up brother. Then I inch closer, close enough that he could hear me if I whisper.

"They can't hear this, Newt. Nothing louder than light whispers."

He nods his head, and I start to tell him the story. From a bird's eye view, I imagine it might look like we're cuddling. My heart sort of jumps at the thought. They're definitely watching us, all of them. Just a pair of unassuming outliers, destined to be something more.

Maybe I want us to be.

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**Let's Hate Everyone Together: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	39. Day 1: Cory's Ashes

**A/N: In this chapter, we're checking up on Bryndle, Blue, Fawn and Heather, plus the careers/"Guys Next Door" to a lesser extent. This one is super girl-centric, but I didn't plan it like that, it kind of just happened. I've been changing alliance names around; some of them might be kind of confusing, and it might be difficult to work out what they mean. A knowledge of pop music might help lol. I'm hoping to wrap up Day 1 next chapter.**

* * *

_I got my ticket for the long way 'round,_

_Two bottles 'a whiskey for the way._

_And I sure would like some sweet company,_

_And I'm leaving tomorrow, what do you say?_

* * *

**Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox**

**District 10 Female**

The pounding ache in my muscles is like nothing I've ever felt before. Probably because I don't usually run wildly for my life. The adrenaline begins to wear off as the sun reaches its peak in the sky. At this point, I can actually distinguish the red circle's outline through the clouds, meaning it's at its peak brightness and warmth as well as height. I'm still chilly, but not quite so much as I was this morning.

Paranoia is more prevalent than actual fear. I move quickly, but my motions are still hesitant, as though I'm afraid I'll step on a squealing little rodent or crunching beetle. One shoe is already torn from a fall a while back, so my bare toe probes the chilly noontime air.

The fall was nothing much, really. I can't make a big deal out of it because the pain has all gone away and I don't think it'll have any lasting effects. I thought I heard another tribute behind me, though it was more likely some kind of mutt, or maybe even just the wind, and I broke into a fast sprint. Then my shoe caught on a little piece of rough stone and I was flying. It felt like I soared for ten meters before crashing to a battered and bruised halt. There are still rivers of dried blood on my legs: the little water I've found, I haven't deemed clear enough to clean out my wounds with.

Infection is definitely a concern, but worrying about that will just make me paranoid. It's still Day 1: if any sponsors have their eyes on me, they'll send me antiseptic if they think it's a concern. Radical action is not necessary, at least not yet.

The other anti-careers cross my mind as I jog straight forward, trying to ignore the searing pain in my calves. Then I start to think about home, and everything globs together into this sense of missing that hits me in the gut like a heavy punch. I try not to think about how much Monita reminds me of Cathy Pour, or how Gray has the exact same eyes as my first boyfriend. Then Rocky gets me thinking about my father, and it all gets sadder when I realize at least one of them is likely dead. I doubt it's Rocky or Gray, though anything is possible. I'll find out at midnight.

My return to the immediate situation has me remembering everything I've taken from the bloodbath. I'd like to have taken more, but being chased away by Kennedy had me scrambling for survival rather than more orange packs. I got two knives, both of which are tucked into my pockets, the handles sticking out so I can grab them at an instant's notice. I have to be ready for things like that. My little plastic case contains twelve iodine capsules and two pink pills labeled "sleep". Then I have a bit of dried beef and a useless rainbow slinky (if I ever come across a descending staircase, I know what I'll be doing.)

Every time, the gamemakers load the supply packs with something useless. It's a bit of a funny tradition for them. Last year, it was little wooden yo-yos. The year before, it was those crappy paper fans you make with a staple. They were literally made out of printer paper and the folds were haphazard and uneven. Half the staples weren't even put in correctly. It was a hot arena too, so I can just picture the gamemakers laughing their asses off. They really like to do that.

I realize I've been pulling the rough fabric of the windbreaker tightly around myself, and I let it go slightly. It starts to flap in the wind, which bothers me, but the constant noise is something to focus on. Thus far, the arena has been dead quiet. Even some kind of weather other than wind would be a nice distraction. That's a bad thought; any kind of precipitation would make this place even colder.

As the minutes crawl past at a snail's pace, the temperature of the arena becomes noticeably higher, with the thick clouds creating a kind of greenhouse effect. It only makes sense that they're thicker now than this morning; this evening, they'll probably thin out once more to let the warm air out. Unlike Gary, I'm using my school knowledge to further myself in the games, not make a fool of myself in front of the entire nation.

Aw, Gary. He was a sweetheart. I have no idea whether he's still alive; I only stuck around to watch two deaths before I was chased away. Suzuki and Edamame are the only ones I'm sure about. Other than them, the field of competitors is shrouded in mystery.

Before long, the faint outline of the red sun begins to fade, and I realize it must be darkening; the first day is now drawing to a close. Part of me is looking forward to tonight, just so I'll know who's dead and who's alive. Sometimes knowing the morbid is less torturous than not knowing anything at all.

A few more hours pass, and I'm still on the hunt for water. It's moments like these I feel a tad grateful I'm all by myself. Even if I had just one ally, my thermos would most likely be empty by now. As it stands, the waterline is around the halfway point, which means I've got maybe one more day before dehydration starts to set in. The thought is worrying, but I resolve to keep up my search until then.

A loud clicking noise makes me freeze in place, and for a moment I know what a helpless younger tribute must feel like. For a few seconds, my mind goes blank of everything, even my instincts. The next click draws me back to my senses, and I grab my knives, scuttling behind a large rock formation and waiting. My heart already thuds in my chest like a jackhammer. My breathing is making too much noise. I try to hold my breath, to inhale and exhale more evenly, but my closed lips burst with the force of so much air.

The clicks continue for at least one minute, though they're growing closer together, and it isn't long before the little mutt comes into sight. My mind jumps toward spider, but it's hard to assign a single word to the odd creature. Eight long legs burst from its body, broad at one end and narrowing out to the short tips that click against the crowd as it moves. I can't describe the thing as mechanical, but it definitely has an artificial element to it. The details of the abdomen are too faint to distinguish. The two curved fangs hanging from its gaping mouth are its clearest feature. They literally drip with poison. As the mutt draws closer, I notice the various lines of hooks running down its abdomen.

_I will not run. I will not scream. _I turn over those two instructions in my head. If I'm quiet enough, still enough, there's a chance I could remain unnoticed. The moments stretch out into minutes. It comes to a rest, relaxing its long spindly legs slightly and clicking with satisfaction as it falls to a halt.

Instinct tears at me, screaming for me to flee. _No, _I tell it. _I will not run. I will not scream._

By the time an hour has passed, my limbs are sore and trembling. Maintaining the awkward position for so long has been difficult, with a few of my fingers bleeding from holding tightly onto the rock. Just when I consider fleeing, the creature lifts itself up and scuttles away. Dead silence returns.

For an hour, I don't dare to move. I hardly even dare to breathe. After what feels like a hundred years, I let myself slide down the rock. I can't help but sigh as I fall into a comfortable position. Both of my hands are bleeding.

I shout out in panic as my foot crashes downward, creating a resounding boom as it lands on the stone. The noise echoes for several seconds before fading to silence. Then I cough. The creature is gone, and I'm safe.

I don't think there's very much infection risk, but I don't want to take any chances, so I tear off part of my undershirt and wrap it around my left hand. Then I do the same thing for my right. In this position, I could easily force the bandages off at a moment's notice. I hope nothing got cut too deep.

* * *

_Feel my blood running,_

_Swear the sky's falling._

_How do I know if this shit's fabricated?_

_Time goes by and I can't control my mind._

_Don't know what else to try,_

_But you tell me every time:_

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

I saw Gary die. The scene loops over and over in my mind, and I see it whenever I shut my eyes, the image tattooed to the back of my eyelids like some strange work of art. The boy from District 1 was responsible. I know his name is Midas, but my scattered brain likens it to Mighty and makes me giggle nervously, so I try to avoid the thought. I wish I could block the other thoughts out just as easily.

The funny thing about this arena is that it doesn't feel like a threat. That's a stupid sentiment, given that my life is in danger every waking (and otherwise) moment, but the entire thing feels like more of a challenge to me. You know how your heart beats when you jerk awake at night? The first time I rode the zip line was like the slap that woke me up, and it's interesting to speculate whether I'm actually a more fearless person or if adrenaline is blocking out everything that could damage my hopes of survival.

For now, I'll go with the former: if for no other reason, than because adrenaline wears off and that's the last thing I need in this arena.

Running keeps me from panicking. It makes a lot of noise, and the amount of echo is definitely scary, but I don't think the noise will carry any kind of distance. The only way I could be heard is if the careers were a few meters away. They are not, and if they were, I would know.

Being light means I can move quickly. The load I'm carrying: an orange fanny pack containing a thermos, some dried beef, two sheets of plastic along with two rubber bands, and a bowl, bounces regularly between my shoulder blades. The faint tapping sound keeps me grounded. My only weapon, a small pocketknife, sits in my left pocket. I would put it in the pocket of the windbreaker, but its pockets are extremely small and I don't want it falling out. The weapon is so small it could hit the ground without making a noise. Even if it made some sound, it would no doubt me drowned out by the cacophony of my footsteps.

I'm not thirsty right now. Mainly, I feel very nervous. I found a small stream a while back, but the water was far too black for my tastes, so I didn't risk drinking any. These clouds are bound to let loose some rain in the coming days—just look at them—and when that happens, I'll have my bowl for the purposes of collection. It almost never rains on the first day, so that isn't much of a concern right now, but I'm prepared to stop and grab the wooden bowl anyway if I have to.

Thinking about the rain reminds me of home. More practically, it reminds me that rain isn't always safe. District 8 is terribly polluted, more so than any other district of Panem. The complete lack of wildlife helps add to the dreary feel. Sure, it's home, but I always got this resounding sinking feeling standing on a rooftop and gazing over the mosaic-like lines of factories and grey slum buildings. Reliably, school was cancelled one day a week due to smog. All bodies of water were disgustingly polluted. Any fish you cut open would have some kind of trash inside, nine times out of ten. And then there was the acid rain: the kind that could look like blood sometimes. Food for rumors that spread through the younger students like infection. Stinn's blood, we called the red rain. The dusty grey snow was called Cory's ashes. Cory because no little kid can say Coriolanus.

My thoughts come to a halt as something concerning appears in my path: footprints. The sight makes me jump, and I'm ashamed at how terrified I am for a few moments. Wait: if the ground is made out of stone, how can there be footprints? Except the ground isn't stone now. It's dirt. I remember pebbles flying out from under my feet a while back: that must have been part of the gradual shift from stone to dirt. The dirt is damp—it squelches under my feet—and I leave my own footprints as I travel.

A small detail of the alien footprints catch my eye: each of them has a small pattern at the sole, almost as though there was something protruding from the bottom of the tribute's shoes. My heart falls as I realize what the marking says: _10M._

I immediately lift up my own foot, and sure enough, _8F _appears on the bottom of my shoe. I turn backward, running my eyes over the path I've already left. There must be dozens of footprints in the mud behind me, my identity stamped into every one of them. Now I have another reason to hope for rain.

I suddenly realize what the plastic sheets and the rubber bands are for. I sit down on a pile of blue rocks and wrap my left foot in one of the sheets, then secure everything with a rubber band. I do the same thing for my right foot. Because of the rubber bands' strength, the squeezing sensation on my feet is rather uncomfortable, but I'm sure I'll get used to it in due time. I take an experimental footstep, and the footprint lacks my district number and sex. Phew.

Now, I have something else to be worried about: the District 10 male is in my immediate vicinity. His footprints look fresh, and as I follow them, I notice two more tracks not far to his left: _4M _and _12M._

Arien, Dock, and Turner. How didn't I realize sooner?

That's when I decide to abandon ship. Arien and Turner aren't very threatening, but something about Dock tells me he would not be very welcoming to an outsider like me. Just the vibes I picked up in the training center. Even if they did let me in, it would all feel so uneasy. Besides, it would feel like I was replacing Gary, and that thought hurts part of my soul. In the games, alliance is a ruthless game unless it's played good and right.

Just then, I hear the noise of footsteps squishing in the mud. I think they're my own, but they keep going when I freeze. I decide to stay where I am until I can tell who it is. If it's a career, I'm hauling ass out of here. Otherwise, I might react differently. Until then, I draw my pocketknife and duck behind a small stone ledge, heart pounding.

I'm more taken aback than I should be when multiple tributes come into sight: three of them, the boys whose footprints I spotted back when.

"Do you think we've lost them?" Arien asks, panting.

"Doesn't matter," Dock responds. "We have to keep running."

Turner doesn't talk much. He looks just as exhausted as the other two, but not quite so run-down. They're all messy and caked with sweat. Turner speaks up after a few seconds: "I think it's safe to rest now."

Dock gives into the pleas of his allies. "Fine, just for a few minutes. But you know how those gamemakers are with tributes who stay still."

"Not right here," Arien says, and he actually laughs. "Let's move somewhere with fewer blue stones. It's too bright here."

Dock points straight in my direction, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "See where it drops off over there? I bet it's dark down there."

I immediately jump to full height. Running will make me look like a target, and even turning my back on the boys will give them an incentive to kill me. Maybe, just maybe, I can work something out with them. Besides, the careers are probably nearby. They'll want me for extra protection.

They stop dead in their tracks and draw their weapons. Not a very promising first sign. I'm tempted to draw my pocketknife, but something warns me against it. Even so, I take up an increased awareness of its position in my pocket, creating a bulge in the material.

"Look what we have here," Dock says.

"The bottoms of your feet. Cover them up somehow."

He squints his eyes, more confused than anything else. He might think I'm playing dumb so they would feel bad killing me. But this is my best bet.

"The bottoms of your feet. Look at them. Right now."

I guess I sound commanding enough, because Arien lifts up his shoe and sees _10M _printed there. "Stinn. Anyone who sees our tracks will know it's us, guys."

"Yeah, they will."

The spear comes flying out of the darkness, and he boys scatter. As Dock runs past me, he hisses, "Come on, 8. We aren't letting you go just yet."

"Stay close!" Turner shouts. "We can't lose each other."

I run toward the center of the group but Arien shoves me away. I guess their group does not include me. My fighter heart tells me to turn around and fight, but I'm smart enough to realize how excessively reckless that is.

We run together for at least five more minutes, and then, like a coward, I slip away. Just abandoning them to the careers. The landscape grows thick with this spiny black undergrowth. My prime concern early on was not leaving footsteps, but there are no footsteps to leave in this region of the arena: anything marked onto the ground is covered up by the undergrowth. I don't think any of them realize when I leap sideways and dash away into the dark cover of the distance.

I immediately feel the bite of guilt in my gut. That entire affair was very spontaneous of me, I'll admit, but couldn't I have at least helped them fight off the careers? I couldn't help Gary, and I wouldn't help his allies. What kind of tribute am I?

* * *

_It's so excruciating to see you low._

_Just wanna lift you up and not let you go._

_This ultraviolet morning light below_

_Tells me this love is worth the fight, oh._

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / AnnabethPie**

**District 11 Female**

"Your interview," Heather says. "Mind explaining why you chose that route? I've been wondering."

Just thinking about my time in the Capitol makes me mad. My entire life, my survival has been dependent on the Capitol: for electricity, for security, and for food. Sure, we only had electricity a few hours a day, peacekeepers cared more about kids stealing loaves of bread than they did about murderers, and the tesserae grain tasted like dirt, but I can't deny the help they've given District 11. I still remember the day the food trucks came nine years ago, when our girl Flower beat down four of her competitors to make it home with her life. Even so, there was always this big distance between us, and it gave me this odd peace, like the big flat world of 11 was floating on its own, connected to the Capitol by nothing but a fraying silver cord. Being in the Capitol itself made me feel like a baby when I was trying to show strength. It's kind of hard to describe.

But I don't say all that. I just answer with, "I was really, really mad," and keep walking. Which isn't a lie.

"Oh, I understand," Heather says drearily. "Hey, look. The sun is in front of us. It's setting. Soon it'll be pitch black, and we'll be left in absolute darkness with fuck all help from the Capitol."

Heather can be frustrating sometimes. I understand her indignation; it's nobody's cup of tea to be torn from their family and thrown into a deadly arena to fight to the death. I'm pretty damn irritated about the whole thing myself. But the real deal is now upon us, and there's no point crying over spilled milk. Not anymore. Anyone the Capitol doesn't like from now on is dead. I can try to make Heather see the truth, but at the end of the day, it's her choice whether she wants to live or die.

I suggest we take a break, because I think we both need to unwind for just a little while. "How about here?" Heather suggests, stopping in a rocky field of rough, jagged ground.

"Are you blind?"

"No. We're going to look through our supplies, right? Here, nothing can roll away and nothing can get lost as easily. The rough ground kind of keeps everything in place, you see?"

She has a point. Getting seated comfortably is a challenge, so we end up sitting on our packs. I'm concerned they'll tear or break somehow, but the material holds up under our weight.

"One first-aid kit, one empty thermos, a knife, a strip of dried beef in a little bag, a compass, and some rope. Enough for one tribute, sure, but two?" Heather unceremoniously dumps the contents of her pack onto the ground.

I want to tell her to stop complaining, that we've done our fair share of moping and that we need to play with the hand we're dealt, but I keep quiet. It just seems like the smart thing to do.

"Hey, don't get all Debbie Downer just yet. We have my own supplies to look through."

Heather frowns. "That's literally the smallest pack on earth. What could be in there? I wouldn't complain about a flashlight and some batteries."

That's exactly what I pull out the pack. My heart jumps as I slide the batteries into their places and turn on the flashlight. My joy quickly turns to horror. The large circle of ground lit by the flashlight beam is crawling with little black worms. The worms swarm over my legs and Heather's, so numerous but so tiny I can hardly feel a thing.

"What the hell are those?" Heather cries out, jumping to her feet.

The tiny mutts hold on tight to my clothing, making it a huge challenge to tear them away. There are literally hundreds on me already. Picking them off could take hours.

Suddenly, a searing pain jolts through my body, originating from a point on my left knee. One of the worms has bitten through. My vision starts to go foggy.

"Fawn!" Heather shouts, panicked. "Where is it?"

I fall to my knees, crying like a baby as pinpoints of searing agony take form on my legs like popping popcorn. My vision grows cloudier with each moment. Then the world slips away and there's nothing but a buzzing sensation throughout my body.

The next thing I know, I'm lying flat on my back. I remember where I am, and the sight of a girl kneeling over me causes me to panic. The girl lays a hand on my chest. Heather, I remember.

"What happened?" I gasp out, hyperventilating.

"I just saved your life."

I pull the flashlight out of my pocket and take a look at my wounds. Both my legs are covered with tiny red spots, and they've started to flare up, oozing green pus in some places. A thin coating of white goop covers my legs in an even coat. Some kind of medicine.

"Used up the whole jar," she says. "It isn't your time to go. Not yet."

I sit up and take a look around. I don't know how far we've relocated, but I hope it's far away from the mutt colony. Heather has all of our supplies laid out in a neat row. Everything is covered with the crushed worms.

"Gee, thanks, Heather." I try to sound as sincere as I can. "You saved my life."

"Sure did, girl." That's her entire response.

"Hey, where did you get this medicine from anyway? I don't recognize it from the first aid kit."

Heather gestures toward the empty silver tray and parachute in her lap.

"This early?"

She nods. "You need some water. And sleep."

She brings a blue thermos to my lips, which is funny, because I remember our thermos as being both black and empty. Then I remember the parachute. Someone in the Capitol must really like me.

"Sweet dreams, princess," she says sarcastically as a dark wave of sleep washes over me. "Don't kill too many Capitolites in your dreams."

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**NASA: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	40. Day 1: Starry Night

**A/N: COVID-19 has me stuck inside. Not gonna lie, feeling pretty terrified and hopeless at the moment. In a moment of boredom I pulled out this chapter and finished it off. Writing is already making me feel better, so the first parts of Day 2 should ideally come soon. Hope you guys are all healthy and safe. Happy reading!**

* * *

_Breakfast at Tiffany's and bottles of bubbles,_

_Girls with tattoos who like getting in trouble,_

_Lashes and diamonds, ATM machines,_

_Buy myself all of my favorite things._

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

"Well, that's officially the most frivolous sponsor gift in history."

"Shut up, Kennedy." I fit the leather gloves onto my hands, letting the sharp metal claws fall into place over my fingers. I bring my right claws to a light rest on my opposite hand and jump from the pain of impalement: these things are seriously sharp. A lethal weapon.

"It's a trick, Jade," Midas says. "You're going to stab yourself a million times before we ever come across some opportunity to use those. Your spear is always a better bet."

In a situation like this, most careers would lash out with anger. While the sensation of being armed with my cat claws makes me a little trigger-happy, I resist and just smile menacingly. I don't really mind the others poking holes in my plans as long as they don't poke holes in me.

Midas groans from his resting position, clearly pissed. "We have to get moving soon."

"No we don't." Kennedy puts her hands on her hips. "It isn't like we have to get back to the cornucopia by dark. We aren't gonna die if we rest for more than ten minutes."

Midas sits up. This is serious business. "We have to find somewhere to rest more permanently. When the sun is gone, we may as well be wearing blindfolds. Good luck stumbling around this hellhole at night while I'm already safe in hiding."

Is Midas threatening to split?

"He's just trying to intimidate you," Kennedy says, staring straight at me.

"Well, I'm not easily intimidated." I raise my claws.

Midas gets to his feet, wiggling his spear a little so that it shimmers in the blue light. "Says the girl with the pet cat named Princess."

"Fuck princess."

"Fuck you."

Midas turns around. "Follow me if you want. Or stay behind and keep exchanging your fashion accessories, I don't care."

Kennedy is already running after him. I hate to give Midas but he wants, but I'm not stupid enough to run off into the arena alone, so I rejoin the group. It's already darker than it was when we first spotted the silver parachute, so dark that when I hold out my hands only a portion of my arms are visible. The night's darkness is like a cloak, settling down and fitting itself over the stone landscape as the fog thickens.

* * *

_bite my tongue, bide my time_

_wearing a warning sign_

_wait 'til the world is mine_

_visions i vandalize_

_cold in my kingdom size_

_fell for these ocean eyes_

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

I stand in silence, waiting for Midas' shout. The world spins around me. It all happened so quickly. The blast. The smoke. Being thrown against the rocky ground. The taste of blood.

We all agreed in the training center: if we're ever scattered by a threat and need to reunite, Midas will shout out his location.

It takes me a while to realize I'm actually lying down, and I laugh to myself. Of course I'm lying down. It's several moments before I have strength to move. It's very comfortable and safe down here. I might just stay down here forever. What's the point of even trying to move?

"Kennedy!" Jade's voice. But that's not right. I don't know Jade. I don't know who that is. Who's the other boy I'm allied with? Gold? No, that's the victor of the twenty-second games. Eventually, everybody morphs into the same person in my head, the same memory: the memory of companionship, long since discarded.

"Kennedy! Hold your breath!"

Kennedy. That's my name. It's a nice name I think. I'm a very nice person. The world starts to fade around me. I hope my dreams are quiet. I'm very, very, very tired.

"Kennedy, I swear to Stinn, if you…"

Stinn. President Stinn Hawke. I still remember him, of course I do. President of Panem.

Suddenly, as the dark wave of nothingness is about to wash over me, a cold hand grabs my wrist. "Kennedy, get up! Get up and run! We need to find Midas!"

Next thing I know, I'm standing. The air has a very peculiar smell to it, an exotic smell, a smell that reminds me of a cave, a river, a fresh book, a crackling log fire.

Kennedy—I remember her name now—is coughing. I'm coughing too. "Breathe, Kennedy," she urges. "That gas just blew out of the ground. You need to get it out of your system before you forget everything."

I turn around and see the cloud of purple. My heart sinks as the memories, the puzzle pieces of my mind, come crashing back into place. "Oh, shit."

"Oh, shit," Jade agrees. "We aren't leaving Midas behind! Now come on! Pull your shirt over your mouth!"

"What the fuck?" I scream. "The gas is spreading. It could cover the whole arena for all we know. We have to run!"

"No!" I can tell Jade is crying. "We aren't leaving him behind! He'd do the same for me!"

"No, he wouldn't!"

"Are you in your right mind? You…"

She must have gotten the gas back into her system.

"Come on. Right now, we have to run," I say. "Midas is following us. We can meet with him later." Which is a lie, but for now, I need to get Jade back to her senses. Killing your allies and letting them die is all fun and games, but not this early in the competition. I can't be the only career. That isn't how you win.

I hope if I can make Jade start running, she'll breathe faster and fill up with normal oxygen. A minute later, the glint of self-control returns to her eyes. "Damn. Damn, Midas... are we leaving him?"

I surprise myself a little when I shake my head no. Goodbye to him means goodbye to well over half our sponsors.

The silver parachute hits my foot a moment later. I snatch it up and tear off the cover. One gas mask.

"I'm going in. Stay right where you are unless the gas spreads to you."

I run into the cloud of purple gas before Jade has time to protest.

* * *

_You would not believe your eyes_

_If ten million fireflies_

_Lit up the world as I fell asleep._

'_Cause they fill the open air_

_And leave teardrops everywhere._

* * *

**Midas Sinthra, 18 / Darkdemon27**

**District 1 Male**

Blast, noise, pain. Sprawled on the ground. Purple air, the sparkle of the stars. Darkness of Orion, Cassiopeia, worlds. My breath mists above me. Why not endless, to the farthest star? I call it back to me, filling me with more of the purple.

Noise: hissing of the river, first faint sound of running water. Dislodged stone earth, gas spraying like water from a hose. Billowing, curling. Laughing, giggling before long. I giggle too, safe, warm, blanketed in the night.

Calls from the darkness: _are you there, my love? To feel your embrace_

Silence again, another thick blanket. I close my eyes and ears, whisper of the sky, whisper of the stars. Safe and sound, come morning light. Raging war, rushing water outside. Hiding inside during a thunderstorm. Here I am safe.

More calls: _mighty_

Answers: only echo. Mighty me. That's me. She comes to get me, to save me. Pristine white wings, green eyes, dark hair: desire and sanctuary.

Fading colors, fading noises. Flashing stars. They are my friends, the archer, the crab. They stay while all else changes, looping in their cycle. Wheel. When I was born: sign of the twins.

_Mighty._

_Midas._

I rise in the darkness. Heart thumping in line with the stars. The girl joins me, grace immeasurable. _Mighty. _She runs. Call her back to me, form of my form. I follow her. Footsteps in the darkness. Focus on her hair, aroma of sleep and blood.

Blood: only exists in the world I have left. I am returning. I fight against it, but I am entranced by the girl. Follow her. I return to the world of blood.

The purple is gone. Now there is only black.

"Deep breaths, Midas. Deep breaths. Get that shit out of your system."

"What's going on?"

"Shut up. Just keep breathing."

"Who the hell are you?" She's at least twenty times uglier than she was ten seconds ago.

She groans. "That gas makes you forget. Please don't tell me you're gone."

A cloud of distant memories floats past. I grab onto some of them, focus on them, and pull them back into my mind. I am in the Hunger Games. My name is Midas Sinthra. I am from District 1. I volunteered to be here. The Capitol is great.

Now there are two girls standing over me. The other one is much shorter and prettier. Seeing her brings back a white, fluffy memory. "What's up with him?" she asks.

The tall ugly girl sighs. "We might need to fill him back in on a few things."

"Cornucopia!" I shout suddenly. "I remember the cornucopia. A spear, I remember that too."

Tall And Ugly sighs again. "More than I thought. I'm Kennedy. This is Jade."

"Are we safe?" I ask.

"Funny you bring that up," Jade says. "Let's run for a while longer."

* * *

_His hair has gone grey,_

_He passes every day,_

_They say he walks the length of the city._

_You knock me out, I fall apart:_

_Can you imagine?_

* * *

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Turner, happy birthday to you!"

"Make a wish," Dock sighs. "Don't tell us about it or it won't come true." His voice rings with sarcasm.

Turner squeezes his eyes shut and then blows out the candles.

"Well, how does it feel?" I ask. "Being fourteen?" I try to sound cheerful. Really, I'm thinking about Gary. It's much quieter without him. He was a great friend and I miss him more than I can describe.

"Just like being thirteen," he says. "How much of the cake should we eat now, and how much should we save for later?"

"One slice each for now," Dock says. "This is not a holiday. We can't lose sight of our goal all because of this stupid celebration."

"Lighten up a little."

"Arien, you've got a lot to learn."

Turner shines a light on the cake, a beautiful cake that makes my mouth water: vanilla, frosted extravagantly with stripes of black and magenta. Words are written in dark purple icing on top: _Happy birthday, Turner. We love you more than we love ourselves! -your biggest fans. _The cake comes on a silver platter with a knife, three forks, and three glass plates. There's even a little cardboard stand for the cake to sit on. You'd think we were at a real birthday party, not crammed into a little cave in a dark arena while a chilling drizzle falls outside.

I feel the warmth of the cake when I take my first bite: fresh from the oven. Without a doubt the best food I've had in a long time. The taste brings back so many memories, but I try to cast them away. Thoughts of home just hurt.

Moments after I finish my slice, the anthem begins, and an unfamiliar feeling of solemn dread hits my throat. Not fear for myself, but for those with no hope of seeing their families again. The bloodbath victims.

The boy from 2, the boy from 3, the girl from 4, the girl from 6, both from 7, the boy from 8, both from 9, the boy from 11. Ten down, fourteen of us left. I feel terrifying little when the sky turns dark again. The games are already changing me.

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**NASA: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	41. Day 2: Everything

**A/N: Happy belated birthday, Shattered! I believe we've cracked 100,000 words with this update, which is a pretty satisfying coincidence. The sky brightens ever-so-slightly as Day 2 arrives in a sudden bout of chilling rain. We're checking on Dock, Arien, Turner, Fawn, Heather, Blu, Monita, and Rocky. Thanks for reading, and please review!**

* * *

_I wanna fall inside your ghost_

_And fill up every hole inside my mind._

_And I want everyone to know_

_That I am half a soul divided._

_Sometimes we will die and sometimes we will fly away._

_Either way you're by my side until my dying days._

_I said, don't be afraid._

_Don't be afraid, we're going home._

* * *

**Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 4 Male**

I wouldn't be surprised at all if the rock under my shoes is completely dry by this point. I haven't budged an inch in at least an hour. The quiet is very relaxing, punctuated only occasionally by a sharp howl of wind or a sudden breath from one of my sleeping allies.

It all reminds me of the ocean. If not for the smell, it would feel just like the ocean. Just like home. When my parents were asleep I used to sneak out to the ocean. It's easy to lose yourself in the crashing of the waves, the humming of the night life. Nature really does come to life at night.

When I hear footsteps, I can almost believe it's The Party. I reach for her black fur but feel only the cool night air. I'm suddenly much more aware of the flute sitting in my pocket. At the end of the day, I have the same goal as every other tribute in this arena. I want to go home.

Arien sits down next to me. "Thanks for not stabbing me," he says, letting out a fake laugh.

"I know what your footsteps sound like. Sweet dreams?"

"I dreamed of black, mostly," he says. "And lying on a cold stone ground thousands of miles from home. And…" He stops himself.

"And what?"

"And Gary." Arien lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his legs wrapped around his knees. "I've been thinking about everything he said at the reaping. About the stars. The other worlds."

"You're so full of bullshit, Arien."

He sighs. "Maybe I am. But my mind can't help reaching out into the vast… everything. My eyes can't capture everything. I mean everything, everything. But words can. Sometimes music can too."

I feel the flute again, wrapped in a small piece of black cloth in my pocket. A hand wrenches my heart. What he said about music. I stop my hand before it can reach my pocket. I won't pull it out. I won't let myself.

"Maybe just surviving isn't the only goal of being alive, I mean." Arien takes in a deep breath.

"You can't dream about the stars and your dead friend if you're dead yourself," I say. Ever since the reaping, and before then even, my entire life has been letting things go, whether I wanted to or not. But life is the one thing I will always refuse to let go of. That must mean I value my life. The boy who jumped in front of trains didn't value his life. We must be different people.

I quiet my voice just a little. "Are you religious?"

"No." He pauses for a while. "I think we've always been part of the universe and we always will be."

"Nothing can be created or destroyed, only transferred," I agree. "I think you're right."

The rain comes firing down before I have time to breathe. The coldest rain I've ever felt in my life. The drops are like bullets on my skin. For just a moment, I know what it's like to want to give up. To just fall down and let go of even the thing I swore I would never let go of.

In the blink of an eye, Turner is at our side. The roaring of rain on the ground outside must have woken him up. "It's just water," he says. "It isn't going to hurt you." His teeth are already chattering. So are mine, I realize. "Come inside."

When I reach the back of the cave, I realize the gamemakers' trick. "Oh shit."

The cave slopes downward, which means it will gradually flood as the rain falls. An inch of water has already accumulated in back, with the bouncing surface rising at an impossibly fast speed. Water rushes down the slope like a rapids. Arien tries to run up the slope but slips immediately, falling down onto his face.

"Don't panic!" Turner shouts, his voice echoing around the cave like thunder. "Don't panic!"

"What do you suggest we do instead?"

"Find something to grab onto!"

The water is already up to my ankles. Arien shouts something about swimming out of the cave once the water level is high enough. This water is just above freezing. We'll be dead from hypothermia long before that happens.

"What the hell? Did you forget about our supplies?"

"More concerned about my life right now!" Turner shouts.

I let the current carry me to the back of the cave, where a few packs bob atop the foaming demon of the rain water. My fingers are unable to grab even one of them: my appendages have seemingly locked up from the cold. When I finally do grab one, I don't have the strength to lift it up. Filled with water, it's too heavy. The things we carry on us now are the only things we're salvaging, and that has to be final. Keeping up the fight is pointless.

A chunk of birthday cake floats past me as I fight my way to higher ground.

I can swim, sure, but not in water this cold. I've always thought sailors were exaggerating when they say freezing water feels like a thousand knives. The level goes from my waist to my knees as I gradually move toward the entrance of the cave. For every five steps I take, a torrent of water forces me backward at least four steps.

The thundering sound of the rain ceases suddenly. The gamemakers want to give us a fighting chance at least. I have no idea where Arien and Turner are. This is all me, my own struggle for survival. That's what the Hunger Games are in the end. Alliances can help you survive each day, but in the end, you are working to be the only victor. That isn't to say I'll kill my allies this early. In fact, the flood has seemingly carried all thoughts of them away from my mind.

The next minute is a waiting game for the level of the water to still. Once I can walk without being thrown around like a ragdoll, I take a deep breath and storm my way to flat ground. Arien and Turner make it around the same time as I do, which is more than just a little embarrassing. I'm from District 4. I should have fought my way out of there at least twice as fast as the others.

We drop our supplies, not speaking a word as we wait for the feeling to return to our bodies. My brain is too cloudy to do anything but join in the huddle. The fiery red circle of the sun, showing faintly through the thick blanket of dark clouds, definitely helps. It's a very, very long time until we're all warm enough to start moving again.

* * *

_Those nights were on fire,_

_We couldn't get higher,_

_We didn't know that we had it all,_

_But nobody wants you before the fall._

_And I'm wasted: Don't leave, I just need a wake-up call._

_I'm facing the greatest loss of them all._

* * *

**Heather Lotus, 18 / CandleFire45**

**District 12 Female**

Fawn and I are fortunate enough to have the high ground when the rain comes pouring down. For at least fifteen minutes, the force of the rain is like bullets. Fawn wants to move, but it's too risky to do anything but stay still. Not only is the ground to slippery for my liking, navigating through the heavy downpour is impossible.

"If this doesn't clear soon, I'm leaving without you," Fawn says.

She's lying out of spite. She would never leave an ally this early in the games. As tempting as it is to get away from her, I have to keep the same thing in mind. For now, we're better together.

Fortunately for us, and for everybody in the arena I would assume, the rain clears quickly. Water rushes away from us, travelling downhill.

"Parts of the arena are going to flood from this," I say.

"Say, where does the rainwater go anyway? The whole ground is rock." As if to prove it, she taps her foot on the slick stone.

"There must be earth at the edges of the arena. But even that has a limit. Nothing can absorb this much water. The more it rains, the less space we'll have. Making the arena smaller and smaller, forcing us all toward…"

"The cornucopia." Fawn adjusts her backpack. "Yep. That'll happen eventually. But we're never getting there if we starve on Day 2. Now come on."

The rain hasn't stopped completely. There's a still a faint drizzle. Not enough to contribute very much to the flooding, just enough to annoy us and keep us moving.

I automatically look around for some kind of wildlife. Making the cornucopia and the sponsors the only source of food would be a recipe for disaster on the gameamakers' part. There's got to be some kind of edible wildlife other than the mutts. My bets are on some kind of fruit tree. I don't know why.

By the time we find the cluster of berry bushes, the temperature has risen significantly. There's too much water vapor in the air for me to feel completely dry, but I do feel rejuvenated somewhat. Fawn stops in front of the bushes and places her hands on her hips as though expecting me to know what question is on her mind.

"Half of our beef is left. Are we gonna risk it?"

"Not unless you want a mouthful of nightlock."

"This isn't nightlock. I've never seen something like this before." We both find everything intriguing in the face of death. You'd think we'd make a great pair.

Fawn reaches out toward one of the berries. I yell out in protest, but she doesn't stop.

"I'm not gonna touch the berries. If we take some off by the stem we'll be able to look at them more closely."

"You can't risk these things," I protest.

"Want to play this game completely safe? Good luck." She hands me a small stem, fresh enough to show that it was only recently torn away from the bush. "What do you think?"

"I don't trust it."

"Me neither. This is some kind of nightlock."

"Nightlock is black. Deep black. This is more of a darker blue."

I drop the berries. "Because there's enough light in this arena to let us distinguish between almost identical shades of the same color."

"You're impossible."

Fawn sits down and unzips her pack, pulling out a small plastic bag I've never seen before.

"What's that?"

"Our thermos came wrapped with it. You know, the thermos you drank from every time I wasn't looking."

I ignore the accusation. "And you've been holding onto it?"

She shrugs. "Weighs nothing. We can't regret not throwing it out."

Fawn tears a few more berries off of the bush and drops them into the plastic berries. "Poison is an epic weapon. I bet the other outliers like berries. Maybe even the careers."

She's right. So I stand back and watch as she ties off the plastic sack and tucks it into her pack.

She scowls impatiently. "Come on."

* * *

_Sometimes it's hard to find,_

_Find my way up into the clouds._

_Tune it out, they can be so loud._

_You remind me of a time_

_When things weren't so complicated._

_All I need is to see your face._

* * *

**Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1**

**District 8 Female**

It's really funny how the cold changes things. Last night I felt ready for anything. Now I hardly have the motivation to get up off the ground.

It rained while I was asleep. I take a small step and slip, quickly catching my fall with my hands before I can hit my face on a pile of blue rocks. Damn, it rained hard. If I listen carefully I can hear the hissing of the water as it rushes to low ground.

I've never been a heavy sleeper, but I must have been sleeping hard if the rain didn't wake me up. I'd like to go right back to bed, but the noise of a human scream makes me jump to attention like a soldier. My heart stops beating for a minute and my legs prepare to run. I can feel my pulse in my forehead, my chest, and even in my feet.

Terror keeps me trapped like a small animal under the claw of a predator, and there's one moment, one terrifying moment, where my thoughts float out of my body. I blink hard. Now's not the time to lose my mind, to lose myself.

The silence drags on, but when the girl screams again, I know I have to get moving or I'll be next. I kneel down and shove everything into the small pack that drifted down to me last night. It's a decent store of supplies. Should last me a few days: a full thermos of water, a few strips of dried beef wrapped in plastic, a little tin bandage box, a rainbow slinky, and a flashlight with no batteries but a single match inside.

I'm surprised how difficult it is to run, just because I don't know where I could possibly run to. It's hard to pick a direction in this place, especially when it's dark. When the scream starts again, I decide that toward and away from the threat are the only directions that matter.

The windbreaker is a very small mercy of the gamemakers. There isn't a hood, so water drips through the coat and into my pants, but it's better than nothing. Nowadays, the gamemakers know what not to do when it comes to the elements. Toward the very beginning of the games—the 8th games I think—five or six tributes died from hypothermia in one night. The gamemakers got off lightly because the entertainment factor of the games wasn't yet fully in place. If something like that happened today… well, it's safe to say Mr. President would need a word with the team responsible.

Before long, the sun is fully in view. At least, I can fully make out its fiery red outline through the dark clouds. The hunger hits me all at once, like a fist to the chest. How long has it been since I've eaten? Not since yesterday, right before I encountered the three boys on the muddy outskirts of the arena.

The strips of dried beef in my pack are suddenly tempting. I was planning to save them until at least Day 3, but the hunger drives everything else out of my mind. I hastily find a little shadowy ditch and kick aside a cluster of glowing blue rocks to make the place completely dark. Then I tear open the clear plastic wrapping and dig in.

You know the feeling when you've been trying to sneeze for almost a minute and finally get one out? Or when you peel up the corner of the sticker when you've been picking at it for so long?

I can't eat both strips. I won't let myself. But when I finish inhaling the first one, it takes everything in me not to reach for the second. That's when the realization hits me. Dried beef dehydrates you. Before I know it I've guzzled down half of the thermos. It was a bad choice, but I can't afford to feel shame.

I haven't heard the screaming noise in hours, but I haven't heard a cannon shot. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. Either the threat isn't lethal and the tribute managed to fend it off, or the tribute just barely survived and the mutt is still hungry for a victim.

Taking one more sip of warm water, I slip everything back into my pack and carefully continue my journey into the dark unknown.

* * *

_Sitting in the corner, just watching me leave._

_You used to be the best thing that ever happened to me._

_Now I'm gone, gone, gone,_

_So out of your reach._

_Now I'm just the best thing that you'll never see._

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

I peer down at the vast expanse of black rock, stretching infinitely in all directions. From up here, it's easy to see why ancient people thought the earth was flat and the sky was a big dome. The blood-red sky, still streaked with dark grey where the rain clouds are yet to disperse completely, seems to touch the edges of my field of vision. As I move my eyes toward the ground, the edges of the "dome", the fog gets thicker and darker until it's hard to distinguish the sky from the ground at all. You'd think it was night, not late morning, but when I look up, the artificial sun is there, making its daily trek across the sky at a snail's pace.

It was Rocky who suggested we come here. Anywhere the wind howls this much, there must be tall structures. He guided us here. Much better at keeping his bearings in the dark I guess.

I pull my knees up to my chest. The cave near the top of the mountain is no warmer than the rest of the arena, but the wind is blocked up here, so I don't feel its chill quite as strongly. The walls of the cave do nothing to drown out the noise of the wind: a constant howl, like someone screaming in pain. I watch as a boulder the size of a house cat rolls down the slope, dislodged by the wind. In a matter of moments, the stone is lost in darkness. It must roll very far, because the crashing noise fades to silence before I hear it thud to a stop.

There's something very depersonalizing about being in a place this dark. It's hard not to feel like a floating pair of eyes here. The numbness from the cold only enhances the illusion.

Without standing up, I inch to the front of the cave, ignoring the wind that now whips at my hair. I grab a blue rock about the size of my fist and pull it to my lap. Surprisingly enough, all of me is still here. I pull my spear to my chest, feeling the long metal shaft. Freezing cold, though it's hard to tell when my fingers are about the same temperature. I turn it in my lap, imagining time passing with every turn.

For just a moment, the wind stops howling, and my blood turns to ice. I jump to my feet. I don't know why the wind stopping makes me feel in danger. That's not true, I know why. Any disruption from the norm, I have to be suspicious of. Rocky knows that well. I guess it's been drilled into my hands too.

The next time the wind howls, it's only for a short moment. The wind must be rattling something, because a loud clicking sound fills the air as the wind dies down again. Probably a plant or something. So why am I still so uneasy?

I sit back down and take a deep breath. But when the clicking noise continues, I know it's nothing to ignore. Is it worth waking Rocky?

Before I have time to make a decision, the—thing—comes bursting around the corner with a deafening hiss of malice. I don't know what you picture when you think of a giant mechanical spider, but whatever it is, it isn't scary enough. The thing seems to move in two different ways: scuttling like a normal spider, and rolling, whirring in circles and pulling in its legs to avoid being crushed. It doesn't seem to have fangs, but the glowing point at the end of its tail drips with purple liquid, and I have a feeling it isn't grape soda.

The next thing I know, the monster is on top of me. Rocky, woken by my screams, tries to sedate the mutt with his club, but it's no use. The club just bounces off the metal. At first, I think a spark has landed on my forehead. Then the point of contact grows and grows. The mutt sinks its stinger deeper and deeper, and then tugs it out with one sharp yanking motion.

The pain is only confined to my forehead for a minute. Then I'm thrashing on the ground, pounding the stone with my fists, screaming so loud I can hear the blood pounding in my head. I've heard the world slowly fades away when you're poisoned, but this is the exact opposite: everything is suddenly pulled into sharp focus. I can feel my nails growing, my mouth making saliva. Every slight movement in the air brings a violent shiver to my body.

Then I realize the poison isn't just enhancing the experiences of my physical body. It's sifting through my thoughts, pulling the worst ones and putting them in a pile for later. Every thought pulls me further from the real world, until I'm living completely in my head. It's just me and my thoughts. A minute later, I have no body at all. My consciousness flows and ebbs through a photo album of terror, like the most terrifying carousel ride imaginable.

The mountain disappears completely, and I'm falling. I scream as loud as I can, but nothing can be heard over the rushing of the wind. There's absolutely no time in this place, no way of telling a second from a minute or even an hour. I might spend my entire life here, rushing through the chilling air toward a ground that will never come.

But the ground does come. The landing should shatter all my bones and kill me instantly, but other than a brief jolt of pain, I feel nothing. I feel for my arms and legs, but I have none. Suddenly a pleasant smell fills the air. I try to sniff deeply, to savor the beautiful aroma, but find it impossible. I feel the wonderful sensation all throughout, rushing, boiling with a weird kind of warmth through the veins that aren't even there. Healing me. Then it begins to draw away, and the horrible cold flows back into my center.

"Come back!" I want to scream, but I don't have a mouth to open. "Help me!"

Something else flows around me, but this time it's a solid. Rather than cement, which would harden around me and keep me from moving my limbs, it seems to solidify my thoughts, so this is the only thing I can think of. I try to remember anything else, but there's only space in my head for the things that can slip through the cement: panic, darkness, the horror of drowning. The cement blocks my thoughts until my head is completely blank.

The flies are next: nothing but little pinpricks of feeling around myself, but I can somehow tell what they are as their legs sink inside me. Like my thoughts, every other sensation seems to pop one by one: the cold and the darkness go first. Eventually, it's only the flies, taking me over, drilling into my mind, eating my life force alive.

That's when I feel something. A small flash, a tiny handhold in hell. For a millisecond, I can feel the ground again. I reach for that sensation and grab into it, refusing to let go. I hold onto it with the strength of my soul. It's like trying to open my eyes and wake up from a dream. The ground, the air. I have to pull my body back to me piece by piece. The effort is going to destroy me.

The world comes back all at once. I'm lying on the cold, damp floor of a cave. I am in the 113th annual Hunger Games. The mutt who poisoned me and caused the hallucination is gone.

I try to sit up, but I'm shaking too hard to budge an inch. "R… R… Rock… Rocky?"

He groans. "I… I… I'm here."

It must be at least ten minutes before I have the strength to form complete sentences. "Are we dead? Is this hell?"

"No." He begins to take more even breaths. "We're alive. I think the poison has worn off."

"Could the poison have killed us?"

"I don't think so. Just torture us with our deepest fears. Two tributes a day. It makes perfect sense."

I sit up, but even that takes all of my strength. "Rocky?"

"Monita."

"What… what did the poison make you see?" I suddenly regret asking the question. "Sorry. It's none of my business."

Rocky inhales as though about to speak, then stops himself. That poison showed me the deepest part of myself, the part of me that even I didn't know existed. Like a dream, I can hardly remember what happened at all. Even if I could, I don't think I could bear to think about it.

"Shhh," Rocky whispers.

"Yeah."

I lie back, rubbing my eyes as though to rub away the flies and the cement that were never there. I briefly feel my spear brush my hand before I fall asleep.

* * *

_Innocence, your history of silence_

_Won't do you any good_

_Did you think it would?_

_Let your words be anything but empty_

_Why don't you tell them the truth?_

* * *

**Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis**

**District 6 Male**

I am standing in a dark room. I know it's a room and not some vast open space, because the darkness is so heavy and close it might crush me. The silence presses down on me too, threatening to drive me insane. For a moment, there is absolutely nothing. I'm trapped in my motionless body, staring forward into the black. Am I dead? Is this where we go when we die; will it be like this forever?

Then something cold and heavy appears in my hand. I run my thumb across the object: smooth, like glass. I lift it to eye level, but there's no hope of telling what it is. I may as well be wearing a blindfold.

I continue to run my fingers over the object. There's a large hole at the top: it's a glass. I feel inside and cold water touches my fingers. I jump so hard I almost drop the glass. The feeling of water reminds me of the world I belong to: a world of whirring to tinkling music, getting drunk on thick honey near a crackling log fire. I reach for that world, try to pull it back to me. I grab onto a small corner of the real world, but it slips away instantly.

Something soft and rubbery slaps against my ankle. Just a second later, I get the same feeling on my left ankle. The thrashing rubber objects continue to multiply, swarming around my feet, climbing higher and higher, slapping against my skin. The room suddenly floods with light.

Fish. Millions of them, stretching to the black edges of the room. Every color of the rainbow and more, their dazzling colors fading as they gradually suffocate. Water! They need water!

All at once, I realize what the glass of water is for. I can save exactly one of the fish, but they all need my help. I reach down and grab one of them, quickly transferring it to the glass of water. Then the glass explodes, dousing me with water and washing away the room, washing away my vision. Before long, only the thick darkness remains.

I am lying flat, staring up at a sky lost in dark fog. In the arena? No: in my mind. The first pinprick of pain is in the back of my head. The pain makes me want to scream, but I have no mouth to open. Do I even have a body, with distinguishable parts? I decide I must not. I am the room. The idea of having a head and feet at all becomes fuzzy. My consciousness stretches much further than I'm used to. There's nothing I can do, no way I can keep myself out of harm's way as the spikes grow out of everywhere, chopping away little parts of me until everything is gone.

The sensation of solid ground makes me open my eyes with a start. Here, I am so much more grounded. I can feel the wind, see the thick grey fog. When I lift up my hands, I can count every finger in the faint moonlight.

Home.

Monita stirs beside me. We both survived the poison. The mutt and its horrible stinger are gone. If Monita wants to speak, she'll speak. Until then, I close my eyes and lay my head back, savoring the feeling of being confined to this earth.

Monita and I have a short conversation. She asks me what I saw while I was under the poison, but I struggle to even remember. There were fish, I think. I'm not scared of fish, am I? There was something about a glass of water. Real scary.

I don't realize I've drifted off until the boom of a cannon shot startles me awake.

* * *

**THE SHATTERED**

**14th: You'll find out next chapter. Mwa ha ha!**

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**NASA: Fawn Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	42. Day 2: Red-Eyed Hannah

_I been trying to do it right._

_I been living a lonely life._

_I been sleeping here instead._

_I been sleeping in my bed,_

_I been sleeping in my bed._

_So show me family, all the blood that I would bleed._

_I don't know where I belong, I don't know where I went wrong,_

_But I can write a song._

**Newton Zhang, 17 / liliblossoms**

**District 5 Male**

"Did you hear that?" Gwyneth asks, breathless panic in her voice. Her eyes glow in the darkness like cats', filled with horror.

I don't want to nod. I don't want to admit to hearing the cannon. But it's impossible to deny, impossible when the noise of the boom still echoes around the arena like thunder.

Gwyneth swallows hard. "I'm scared," she says in a small voice.

I've never seen her like this before. Suddenly I'm reminded of a piece of glass under pressure that holds strong and then shatters all at once. I swallow even though my throat feels like sandpaper. I will not allow myself to shatter like that.

"So am I." It feels weird to admit. "We're all scared, all of us. Even the careers are scared, they just don't want to admit it."

"I guess the good thing about that is…" Gwyneth stammers, "Even if you're by yourself, you're never alone."

"Yeah," I murmur. "Never alone."

Gwyneth takes the first step, and I follow her lead, travelling down the thin path. The wide indentation in the ground is about half a foot deep, as though a bulldozer came right through here and carved out the path. The path is completely flooded, so my socks cling to my shoes with an utterly disgusting texture. But that's the least of my concerns right now.

"Thanks for being here with me," I say, partly to give the Capitol something to munch on, partly just to break the silence. "I'd have gone crazy by now if I was alone."

"We ran when Edamame was knifed down. I'd never run from you."

The tone of her voice is hard to read.

Gwyneth is funny enough that I can almost (again, almost) forget about the cannon shot. The boom still echoes in my ears, rattles in my nerves. I can't keep my wild eyes on the path. The darkness isn't helping. You'd think my eyes would have adjusted completely by noon on Day 2.

I perk up suddenly, and my hand reaches for my knife. The sound I thought was another cannon is only the high-pitched beeping of a sponsor parachute. The silvery material catches what little sunlight there is. It looks to be woven out of moonlight, which would be some seriously beautiful imagery if not for the situation.

"The moon," Gwyneth mutters, shivering.

"The moon."

There's something uniquely horrifying about the moon in this arena, something I could never place my finger on no matter how many times I glanced at it last night. It turned my blood to ice water. It made my heart pound like a jackhammer, and something told me it would end up being the greatest threat us tributes would have to face to make it out of this arena.

"How could the moon be dangerous?" I blurt out.

"Don't know," she says, but it's nice to know for sure that she agrees with me. "That thing gave me the creeps."

We sit down on the ground, and the parachute drifts into my lap, darkening as my body blocks the sunlight. This isn't a good place to stop, but we're both too tired to keep searching, and the delicious aroma coming from the parachute makes my knees feel even more like jelly.

I pull away the silver parachute and hold the little paper note up to the light. Gwyneth has to stand to read it:

_You know what they want. –Surge_

The next thing I know, Gwyneth has kissed me on the forehead. I could sit there all day trying to remember what my name is. We agreed we wouldn't fall into this. But I guess it's too late to turn back. She chose this path for us whether I like it or not.

I like it.

It's hard to think about anything else as we share the steak-and-potato soup carried down by the parachute. There's no point saving any of it for later, because soup isn't exactly portable. Abandoning table manners feels funny after so long. But it's what I wanted, all these years. I guess that's my little ray of sunshine for the day.

Gwyneth takes the last bite, and she drops her spoon into the metal bowl with a clatter. "That was…"

"Shhhhh!"

_A human sneeze._

I reach for my knife, and she does the same thing. For a long time, too long, there's nothing but silence. Then footsteps, slowly, heavy footsteps.

"Water, they said three days…"

The sunlight catches on two wicked-looking hunting knives. She grips them so hard her knuckles are white. Then the girl freezes, turns toward us, and sighs. "I'm going to kill you." Her voice quivers with terror.

"No you're not."

"You're right," the girl's voice warbles. "I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. I haven't drunk any water in a whole day. Please help me. Please, please." She falls to her knees.

Her voice has changed so much, it takes me a while to recognize her as Bryndle Greer. I could kill her right now. I could cut open her throat. With Gwyneth to help, she'd be hopelessly overpowered.

"Newt," Gwyneth hisses. "We can't help her. Come on."

"Where are you going?" Bryndle cries out. "I'll… I'll kill you if you run!"

Gwyneth flicks her knife in Bryndle's direction, and she falls onto her back. Then she gets up and runs for her life.

"I've never seen her like that," I say slowly.

"Dehydration." Gwyneth's voice is heavy, but strained, like she's trying not to cry. She grabs my hand. "Now let's go. Our own thermoses aren't going to last us forever."

"Are we going to chase after her?"

"No," Gwyneth mutters under her breath, so quietly the cameras could never hear. "Right now, we gotta give them more of us, and just us. The killing is for later."

She's right. A kiss is easy to forget when there's blood right after. Well, for the audience it might be forgettable. I already know it's something I'm never going to forget.

_I spend hours in the garden,_

_I walk alone to the store,_

_And it's quiet uptown. I never liked the quiet before._

_I take the children to church on Sunday,_

_A sign of the cross at the door,_

_And I pray. That never used to happen before._

_Phillip, you would like it uptown, it's quiet uptown._

**Arien Whicker, 13 / Writer207**

**District 10 Male**

"We should have been collecting the rainwater," Dock says.

"I was more worried about not drowning," Turner says. "Tributes that drown don't usually win."

A laugh tumbles from my lips. I can't hold it back, and before long, I've completely doubled over with laughter. It wasn't even a funny joke, but literally anything to lighten the mood makes my mind come crashing down.

"Everything alright in the head?" Dock asks.

"Yeah. Sorry, it's just…"

Dock gestures for us to keep moving. I shoot a quick glance at Turner, who grins back, sticking out his tongue and pointing at Dock's back.

"Any signs of water?" I ask, just to change the subject, because Dock seems pretty pissed.

"Nope. We have to go downhill." Dock lets out a sigh. "That's where the flooding is."

Turner pales. "You mean the mud at the edge of the arena? I'm not going back there. Remember the careers? We almost died."

"We couldn't go back there if we wanted to," I say. "It's gotta be completely underwater."

"Now we have to make a decision." Dock turns around and comes to a halt. "We can go to the edge of the arena, where the flooding is. The water has got to be like a lake around the arena. Or we can stay toward the center, where there are more dangers."

"I'm confused. What's so dangerous about getting too far away from the horn?"

"If those clouds let out some more rain," Dock explains, pointing upward. "We could get taken off guard."

"We'd handle it," I say.

"Like we handled it in the cave this morning?"

My mouth loses the ability to form words. He's nailed me.

"I wouldn't mind moving out and taking a risk," Turner reasons. "A constant, unending supply of fresh water… that's priceless."

A smile crosses my face. "Very astute words, Turner."

"Astute? What does that even mean? You always use funny words like that."

"Astute, adjective, a state of…"

Something very strong tightens around my leg, making my heart stop.

I gulp. Turner and Dock reach under their shirts, pulling out their weapons. Knives. Turner's face turns as white as a sheet of paper.

"Arien. Don't move. Just look straight."

Dock gets ready to pounce, but Turner grabs his wrist. "It might leave us alone if we stay still enough."

Then I hear the breathing. So loud, so… human.

The howl of a wolf pierces the silence, and my leg explodes in agony as a chorus of sharp claws pierces my calf. All hell breaks loose as my legs buckle underneath me, sending me careening sideways. I land on the ground with a crash, pinned down by the mad beast.

"DOCK! TURNER! I'M GOING TO DIE!"

"Roll to the side! We'll try to distract it!"

"I'M GOING TO DIE!"

I'm screaming it to myself. To my own mind, the mind that commands my body to do anything but let go of life. My mind goes blank of everything, even my instincts. Another howl breaks through the dark. The last thing I see before everything goes blank are the glowing red eyes.

_I only wanted to have fun,_

_Learning to fly, learning to run._

_I let my heart decide the way when I was young._

_Deep down, I always must have known_

_That this would be inevitable._

_To earn my stripes, I'd have to pay_

_And bare my soul._

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

The good news: Dock and I manage to get the mutt off Arien. The bad news, I am its next target.

I expect it to pounce, and Dock lunges to protect me, but the mutt stops about ten feet in front of me, its red eyes staring straight into mine. Even though they're burning red, there's something so intelligent, something so human inside there.

The sunlight catches its silver fur. Dock and I shiver simultaneously.

When its face comes into focus, a scream catches in my throat. This is no wolf.

"The… the girl from 12. Hann… Hannah Barret."

Memories from last year come rushing back: sitting cross-legged in front of a small television in the library, watching the 112th games live. The girl from 12, Hannah, was an instant standout for her natural green eyes. I'm talking vibrant, electric green, so vibrant it was hard to believe that was her natural eye color.

She made it to third place. Gamemakers reanimating dead bodies as mutts is nothing new. It was done for the first time in the 74th games. Even so, the concept still makes my stomach turn.

I make eye contact with the wolf again. Hannah Barret's eyes: changed so much, yet so little.

Time slows down as the wolf charges. My legs tense. I run to the side, but its killer instinct is faster than me. It rakes its claws across my chest, and for just a moment, the pain makes me lose sight of everything around me.

I fall to the stone ground, groaning loudly. In that moment, the mutt must decide Dock is a better target, because it changes direction and pounces toward him. Dock lops off part of its ear, and the mutt roars with fury as a river of black blood runs down toward its snout.

It all happens in slow motion. Dock jumps into the air and uses its snout like a springboard, leaping from the ground onto its back all in one fluid motion. Dock yelps as he lands on the creature's back—I can't imagine that felt very good on his nether regions—but he has bigger problems. The wolf leaps up and down, trying to knock him off, and Dock glares down at me, his eyes desperate.

_Do it, _he mouths.

I don't know where I find the energy to get to my feet. But, thank my lucky stars, the mutt pays no attention to me as I approach and gore a fallen knife through its eye. All the stabbing and screaming I do is hard to keep track of.

The next moment my mind knows what's going on, the mutt is dying, lying in a shuddering heap on the ground. Dock lies motionless next to it.

"Dock! Are you…"

"I'm fine. The wolf isn't fine. I asked her."

Both of Dock's knives are still closed in his hands. The number of bloody gashes on the wolf's back prove he must have done some serious damage while he was up there. My own knife is still in my pocket. So whose knife am I holding?

The cannon shot goes off the moment my eyes land on his motionless body. Dock is at my side (it's creepy how quietly he can approach you from behind). "Did you hear the cannon?" I ask.

Dock nods solemnly. "Arien is no more."

He kneels next to our friend and rests a hand on his back, whispering something into his ear. Then he brings his hand to his forehead in a salute.

"A sailor's farewell," Dock whispers.

I recreate Dock's goodbye and then follow him away into the darkness. The hovercraft will be here any minute, to carry the starry-eyed boy we called our friend into the sky.

It takes me a while to speak up. "You don't think they'll do anything with his body, like they did Hannah?"

"They'd better fucking not."

I don't say anything else as I walk by Dock's side. No need making a heavy situation even heavier.

**THE SHATTERED**

**14th: Arien Whicker, District 10 Male – Mauled to death, by wolf mutt**

I loved writing Arien so much. His love for things that other people considered frivolous, whether it was acting, LARPing, or just laughing to lighten things up, was what made his character very special to me. The struggle is over for him now, but he leaves behind two allies to face the horrific dangers of this arena moving forward (and it's going to be really horrible, trust me). To quote Hamlet, "Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**NASA: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	43. Day 2: Perilous Night

**A/N: Here's the end of Day 2. Deaths will definitely speed up as we continue, so these games don't end up being a month long or anything. I have not read Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes yet, so please avoid spoilers in the reviews/PMs. Thanks for sticking with this story, and enjoy :D**

* * *

_Been through some bad shit,_

_I should be a sad bitch._

_Who would have thought it'd turn me to a savage?_

_Rather be tied up with cuffs and not strings,_

_Write my own checks like I write what I sing._

* * *

**Jade D'Amore, 18 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 1 Female**

"Did you hear that?" Kennedy freezes, staring off into the shroud of dark fog.

There's something in her expression that's hard to read: fear, definitely, but with a resounding quality of awareness. A snake watching and waiting to pounce.

I drum my razor-sharp cat claws against my thigh. "We can't stop here. Come on."

"I agree with Jade!" Midas shouts.

Kennedy shushes him. "Sound travels really well through this hellhole, like a bathroom. You have to keep quiet, remember?" She growls every word. Kennedy shoots me a look that says _we'll talk about this later _and keeps moving.

I follow her through the wasteland, tracing the route of the thin stream as we approach the lake. Every so often, Midas stops to take a sip of water, but neither of us drinks from anything except our thermoses. We don't trust the water to pass through us without harm.

Kennedy is my greatest comfort. That's a risky statement to make, because there's no such thing as real friendship in the games. But this early in the games, I think it's safe to trust her. And I do trust her; her tracking skills are phenomenal, and though she takes the largest rations, she always shares.

"Hey, how do we know there's a lake up here anyway?" Midas calls out.

"Again, quieter!" Kennedy hisses.

He repeats his question at a high whisper.

"Yesterday, before your… incident, we got a sponsor note," I explain. "It said _the water celestial is two miles toward the rising moon._"

"Ooh!" Midas claps his hands like a little kid. "The moon rises in the east. So if we go east, we'll find the water celestial. What's the water celestial? It sounds pretty. I want to make some kind of raft to float on it."

"We can't. It would just float away," Kennedy says.

"I could stick my spear in the shore, and keep the raft anchored with a rope."

"You can stick your spear…"

"Midas," I say, loud enough to cut Kennedy off. "Why don't you run ahead and look for the lake? Kennedy and I have something to talk about."

"Good idea, Jade."

Kennedy stares at the back of his head the entire time he sprints away. Then he disappears into the darkness.

"That was awful. He's got no memory. He's living in la la land as far as I can see," I say, a fist of guilt twisting my stomach.

"This whole situation is awful." Kennedy tilts her head back and sighs, staring into the cosmos. "We can't keep him."

"He's our ally." I cross my arms. It's a cheap attempt to look defensive, because deep down, I guess I'm hoping Midas doesn't come back.

"He was our ally. Now he's our pet."

Those words hang in the air for a while. My thoughts start to wander, and a realization hits me all at once.

"You like him, don't you?"

"That's completely irrelevant," she says quickly. "I refuse to have a crush on a guy with amnesia who I'll never see again after the next few weeks."

"But you do like him."

"Jade, I swear to Stinn…"

"You like him."

She stamps her foot. "You can't see into my mind. If I say I don't like him, I don't."

"That's like saying, if you can't see my weapons, they can't hurt you."

Kennedy starts walking much faster. "Drop it, please. It's giving me a headache."

"Sorry."

"And stop saying sorry."

I zip my lips and follow her farther into the gloom. I retract my cat claws so I can lace my fingers behind my back without stabbing myself. The bouncing of my pack between my shoulders remains consistent and perpetual; the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes. Kennedy and my backpack: the two things that never change.

When I silently click my tongue, it feels dry. I take a swig of hot water from my thermos, which is now more than half empty.

I roll my eyes and slip my thermos back over my shoulder, into my pack. "I could really use some water celestial right now. How much farther until…"

Something crunches under my foot.

"Not much farther," Kennedy answers, reaching down to grab whatever cracked under my foot.

I stifle a yell. "I've never seen a human skull in person before, but…"

Kennedy sighs. She does that a lot. "Yeah. I don't think it's the skull of someone we know. This looks either really old or fake. Just a camera prop."

She sets down the jagged piece of bone down. Just a camera prop.

I let my eyes travel upward, past the beach of skulls and bones onto the glassy black lake. Something on the surface of the water catches my eye…

I suddenly clap my hand over my mouth, screaming behind my fingers. My blood turns to ice water. Panic seizes all four of my limbs, freezing me in place.

"The moon," Kennedy says, her voice cracking.

A single glance at the moon's reflection is enough to send me into a state of shock. I'm reminded of every time I've ever been scared, and images rush through my brain like a television changing channels: a five-year-old girl hiding from the bogeyman, an eleven year-old in the woods at night, a teenager crying in front of a makeup mirror. If the moon's reflection is that horrible, I can only imagine what looking straight at it could do to me.

Somehow, I know looking at the moon would shatter my sanity instantly.

* * *

_When I'm gone,_

_When I'm gone,_

_You're gonna miss me when I'm gone._

_You're gonna miss me by my hair,_

_You're gonna miss me everywhere, oh,_

_You're gonna miss me when I'm gone._

* * *

**Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox**

**District 10 Female**

Hunger tugs weakly at my stomach as I break into a sprint. I'm not running from anything in particular, but exerting myself helps to distract me from the darkness and the fear.

I'm still a little shaken from the morning's cannon shot. I don't know how many hours have passed since then. The sun is my only timekeeping device, and even that seems to be moving slower than usual. I heard the screams of the dying boy only faintly. He sounded younger, though it's hard to tell for sure; everybody's screams sound basically the same.

That's kind of a poetic thought, if morbidity can ever be described as poetic.

This is what I wanted, I remind myself: freedom. Freedom to run where I want and sleep when I please. No curfew, no maids. No peacekeepers turning their heads away. Freedom is what I've got, but at what cost? Scrapes and cuts cover my legs. Last time I checked, the insides of my shoes were caked with blood. My windbreaker is wearing away by the hour. My teeth feel like someone has glued fur onto them.

Another half hour or so brings me to one of the smaller pools of the arena. Not the giant lake surrounded by bones, but a smaller, unmoving pool of black water about as large as a twin-size bed. I pick up a small black pebble and toss it onto the unmoving surface of the water. A single ripple forms on the surface, spreading outward. In a matter of moments, the water surface looks like polished glass again.

I shouldn't stop to rest; not in the early afternoon, when the careers are most likely to be out and about. Besides, I want to get most of my travelling done before the moon rises. The hideous, petrifying moon. Even thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine. I resolve to sleep facing downward from now on so that I don't see the moon if I wake in the night.

As I dip my feet into the cool water and sit down on the smoothest area of stone I can find, I remember a story my grandmother once told me. Not really a story, by strict definition. But something that I still think about today.

"_Open your eyes, little one, and look out of the window. Look at the moon – look at it very closely. That is the moon President Snow saw the night he was stowed away to be eaten by flies. That is the moon Clary Faciana saw the night she was ambushed and drowned in the first ever Hunger Games."_

"_I thought it was morning when Clary drowned," _little me protested.

"_It was early morning," _my grandmother explained._ "Very early morning. That is the moon nine billion people saw as their seas swelled, as their continents were destroyed. That is the moon humanity saw as it fell into anarchy. Moving even farther back, that is the moon the first settlers in the place we now call Panem saw as they crossed their land bridge from the far east. That is the moon Jesus saw as he stopped breathing."_

"_There's no such thing as Jesus, grandma," _I said. _"That's just a fairytale."_

"_Who's to say fairytales are not real?" _my grandmother continued. _"There just might be fairies dancing on the lawn as I live and breathe."_

The memory is vivid and sharp after all these years, which is ironic because I remember virtually nothing else about my grandmother. After scrubbing the blood off of my feet, I lie back and stare at the blanket of gray fog. The fake sun. This entire arena is a test tube. Every element is carefully controlled by the gamemakers, pushed and pulled to their liking.

When I wake to the noise of the national anthem, I know one thing for sure: if there ever have been gods, they are the gamemakers now.

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (13): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Fawn, Heather, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**NASA: Fawn, Heather**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle**


	44. Day 3: I Sing the Body Electric

**A/N: Here's another chapter. As usual, thanks for reading, and please review :)**

* * *

_count my cards, watch them fall_

_blood on a marble wall_

_i like the way they all scream._

_tell me which one is worse,_

_living or dying first,_

_sleeping inside a hearse._

* * *

**Kennedy Coil, 16 / MonkeyPower435**

**District 2 Female**

"I've watched the first 112 Hunger Games too many times to count. This never ends well," Jade nervously bites at her cat claws.

"Normally, the big bad career hasn't had his memory wiped," I whisper.

"Still, it's a risky plan," Jade says. "What if he's just pretending to be stupid so he can expose us as traitors and have an excuse to kill us? What if he can still fight back?" Jade gulps.

I roll my eyes. _A knife to the chest. He's sleeping. He'll never know what hit him._

As if she can hear the voice in my head, Jade follows my eyes to Midas' sleeping form. His chest slowly rises and falls at the lakeside. The once fearsome career, blissfully unaware of his impending doom. It tugs at my chest a little, but I force my eyes away and look at my knife.

Jade and I sit in silence for a while, just to draw out the anticipation. I imagine the cameras are trained on us, especially this early in the morning when there's so little for them to focus on. Jade begins to stand up, but I gesture for her to keep her cool. "For the show, Princess. For the show."

She shuffles a bit, and I hear her windbreaker scrape against the stone rock formation. I don't think she likes being called Princess.

"You know, Kennedy, I just thought of something."

I wait.

"After he dies, there'll be twelve tributes left. Exactly half of us."

I slowly stand up, deciding that Midas isn't gonna kill himself any time soon. Jade follows my example, getting to her feet and extending her cat claws: filed down to razor-sharp points.

I raise my eyes to her face. Though it's too dark to distinguish her features in very much detail, I can see her eyes clearly, shining in the darkness like cats'.

"On the count of three," I whisper.

The cannon shot has fired before the boy from District 1 has time to scream.

I tear my knife out of his chest, grunting slightly from the effort. Jade flicks the blood off of her claws, letting some of it fall back onto the deep gashes adorning Midas' neck. I just killed my crush and Jade just killed her district partner. Only in the Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen.

I start away from the scene without looking back, setting my eyes on the gathering storm clouds to the north. Liking Midas was never a good idea. It was an unwelcome distraction and I'm glad to be rid of it. Twelve tributes left; eleven deaths left to go before the Victor's crown sits on my ears.

* * *

_When I walk around all of the streets_

_Where I grew up and found my feet,_

_They can't look me in the eye,_

_It's like they're scared of me._

_I try to think of things to say,_

_Like a joke or a memory,_

_But they don't recognize me now,_

_In the light of day._

* * *

**Turner Willard, 13 / CragmiteBlaster**

**District 12 Male**

Dock and I get moving immediately after the cannon shot. We run for a while before finally deciding it's safe to stop. At this point in the games, deaths often follow one another in rapid succession. Sitting still through a cannon is a good way to get your face in the sky.

"Well," Dock finally says with a heavy sigh, pulling the little orange bottle out of his pocket. "If they gave these to us, they must want us to take them."

I shrug, but he doesn't really acknowledge me anyway. It must have been at least an hour ago, but the beeping of the little silver parachute still rings in my ears. No note, no fancy gift. Just a little orange bottle and two white pills.

"Sponsor gifts are always trustworthy," Dock says. "I think these are safe to take."

As I stare at the dark storm front, I run through my notebook in my head, trying to remember everything I've ever written in its pages. I wasn't allowed to bring it into the arena as a tribute token (because the Capitol saw it as an unfair advantage, and fairly so) but I've kept it so close to me all these years, I practically know the entire thing by heart.

"Molly Toliday, District 4. Third annual Hunger Games."

Dock puffs in disbelief. "That was over a century ago."

"Carly Cavender from the 109th games was attacked by giant rat mutts borrowed from the 12th games. Don't disregard the classic age games. It's a… well, a fatal mistake."

"Fair enough," Dock admits. "Anyway, what did Molly Toliday do in the third games? I haven't seen most of the first decade. That was back before the gamemakers were very good at gamemaking, so they never showed them on TV much."

"Molly emptied out her sponsor parachute and filled it with poison berries. Then she climbed up into a tree and dropped it down on Nairn from 7. He figured they were straight from the Capitol, and they killed him. Then she pulled the same trick on Sirco from 11. Then Kasha from 9, then…"

"Yep." Dock put his hand on his forehead like a visor, mockingly looking back and forth. "We're a bit short on trees right now. But that still doesn't answer the big question. What in Panem do the pills do?"

I suddenly have a really scary thought. "They might be some kind of sick callback to Gary's reaping."

Dock's face turns red. "They better not be. I refuse to write my own star poetry."

I shrug. "As for this storm, I don't think we have any choice but to deal with it. It might be a natural rainstorm or some crazy gamemaker-invented scheme."

Dock slips the pills into his pocket. "Well, we can't go above it or around it."

I swallow hard. With that, Dock and I fall into silence and continue our journey toward the next heartbeat.

* * *

_Hey, it's all me in my head._

_I'm the one who burned us down,_

_But it's not what I meant, sorry that I hurt you._

_I don't wanna do,_

_I don't wanna do this to you._

_I don't wanna lose,_

_I don't wanna lose this with you._

_I need to say, "hey, it's all me, just don't go."_

_Meet me in the afterglow._

* * *

**Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie**

**District 11 Female**

The sun is directly overhead when it starts raining. Heather and I haven't covered much ground today, but I can only hope she isn't leading me to our deaths.

I drop my pack on the ground and groan in frustration.

"What the fuck? What the actual fuck? It starts raining right after we almost die fending off the wolf mutt? Because that wasn't enough of a show?"

Heather turns around and groans. The cuts and scrapes she got during the fight are still fresh on her arms. "Maybe if you'd quit complaining we'd cover more ground."

Blood rushes in my ears, and all at once, the dam keeping back the full force of my anger bursts. "Are we going to be one of those alliances that breaks apart before the final eight, only for both of us to run off and get killed? Is that what we're going to be? Because if that's what you want, I guess you've stopped caring about your life!"

She steps back defensively, whipping her head to one side to throw the hair out of her face. "Maybe it's time for you to find some confidence of your own, Fawn Weed. Because If you're so scared of me running away, you must be pretty dependent on me for survival."

"Dependent?" I raise my voice to a yell. "I saw the wolf mutt first. I found the water first when we were so thirsty we talked about suicide. You'd be dead without me!"

The light rain shower turns into a downpour, soaking straight down to my skin. When the wind picks up, raindrops hit me in the chest and face like bullets.

"I'm going off by myself," Heather says with an infuriating slowness, as if talking to a child – like she's bigger than me! "At my own risk. I don't wanna drag a useless ally around this arena anymore."

"Your own risk? _Your own risk?_ There are three careers left, and the cannon shot this morning means this arena is still just as dangerous as ever – probably even more so! We have to keep together until the final eight. There is no such thing as _your own risk. _Not anymore."

I hear the first crack of thunder. It echoes over the arena and then fades into silence, like the noise a giant beast makes as it dies very slowly. Like the creaking and groaning of a sinking ship.

The first lightning bolt makes contact with the ground before I have time to breathe. The screaming of electricity is deafening, like being inside of the world's largest bass speaker at the highest volume. Then I'm thrown off my feet, flying through air so hot I feel like I'm being baked alive.

_This is it. This is how I'm going to die._

I land on the ground and sob in agony, grabbing my throbbing ankle. My entire body burns like fire. My bones belt into liquid. My muscles scream as though I am under the weight of a thousand trucks. Even through the black spots in my vision, I can see the crater about a hundred feet away, still smoking.

I'm lucky. I had at least some distance from the site of the lightning strike. Any closer and my chances of survival would have been extremely slim.

Adrenaline races through my body, turning my blood to ice water. I try to get to my feet but cry in pain. All the energy has been drained from my limbs. I hardly have the willpower to get onto my knees.

I fall forward, my face landing on the ground. I will give myself one minute to rest. Sixty seconds. After that, I promise myself I will run for my life whether I like it or not.

Forty seconds left. Far away, another lightning bolt touches down, accompanied by the screaming of flying debris.

Twenty seconds left. I hear a booming noise, but my vision isn't illuminated by lightning. A cannon shot, I realize.

When I reach zero, I shakily stand up and begin to walk. My ears ring. The world spins around me. Every cell in my body wants to face the blissful release of death. Every part of me except my willpower. I will not die in this arena.

The moment I see Heather, I know the cannon shot belonged to her. I had enough distance from the lightning strike to survive. The girl from District 12 was not nearly as lucky. Her entire body is burned black and scattered over the stone in several pieces. Raindrops sizzle when they touch her burning-hot corpse.

That's when the sights and smell of ozone become too much. I fall back to my knees and vomit, emptying more than I ever thought my stomach could hold. The puke splashes over my legs and over Heather's body.

I shakily grab my knife and press it against my neck. I try to cut it into my throat, but don't have the strength. I drop the knife instantly, and it lands between my knees, clattering to a halt.

My breaths are shaky as I reach out and grab a small handhold in the ground. I scream in exhaustion as I drag myself along, moving just a few feet. That's what the gamemakers want. They want me to keep moving. They want to see me keep fighting. And I have no choice but to give them what they want.

* * *

_Moving on, something new._

_What some people call memories_

_I call wasting time with you._

_All the bad times, it's a good time to just walk away from you._

* * *

**Monita Lidell, 16 / DefoNotAFangirl**

**District 3 Female**

"Two cannon shots in one day," Rocky marvels, dropping a berry into his mouth. "Welcome to the Hunger Games."

"Who do you hope they were?" I ask.

"Hope? The careers, of course. I'd rather have one highly-trained killer in this arena than three any day. Think? Probably the boys in that three-way alliance. Dock, Arien, and Turner, you know? The number of tributes is already falling, so I can imagine a group of three outliers making the gamemakers a little nervous."

"Maybe one of them was killed," I suggest. "And the other death was an outlier. Someone without allies."

Rocky shrugs. "Who knows? No use speculating. I don't want to wander away with ideas and fantasies. We'll find out who died at midnight."

I eat my last berry and burp. My stomach rumbles, already working hard to digest the new food. Rocky found the berry bush. Neither of us thought the berries looked harmful, but I volunteered to take the first bite. Neither of us has dropped dead yet, so we must be alright.

We haven't found any trace of another tribute in nearly a day. I'm thankful for the tranquility – or, at least, as close as you can get in the games.

Rocky and I pack up our things and then get moving. We move for about an hour, and relax a little when the lightning storm at the opposite end of the arena begins to dissipate. This area of the arena is unnervingly flat, but only for so long.

A giant wall of stone spikes appears out of nowhere, looming out of the darkness in the most cinematic way possible. The spikes extend much higher than I could ever climb. Most of the spikes are so close together Rocky and I could never fit through. Maybe a smaller tribute could, but not anyone of our size.

The crash of falling rocks gains my attention in a moment. I reach for my knife and prepare to grab my spear if things get nasty. I stand firm as can be and make eye contact with Rocky. We both know where that came from.

Someone is behind that wall of spikes.

"Show yourself," Rocky calls out suddenly. "We know you're there. If you stay in hiding, we'll find you and kill you. You can't run."

The girl behind the spikes begins to breathe heavily, panicking. Realizing we've found her hiding place, she makes a run for it, but Rocky reaches through the spikes and grabs her by the neck.

"Help me!" Rocky cries out as he struggles to keep the girl in his grasp. Neither of us is big enough to fit through the gap, and I doubt she is either, so we can't pull her to our side and kill her there.

The girl, Bryndle from 10 I realize, is surprisingly strong, and she manages to slip free in a matter of moments. She stumbles backward, gasping for breath, then runs for her life.

"We have to pursue," I mutter, running along to wall in search of a gap large enough to fit through. There is none. Bryndle Greer has escaped.

"Damn, that sucks," Rocky grumbles, kicking a stone across the ground. "There's no way the wall stretches across the entire arena, because if it did, we would have seen it before now. There has to be an end. We just need to keep looking."

* * *

**THE SHATTERED**

**13th: Midas Sinthra, District 1 Male – Clawed and knifed to death, by Jade and Kennedy**

Midas was the kind of bloodthirsty career tribute that every story needs, and I definitely had fun writing his character. He started off as the highest ranking tribute and then fell into a kind of blissful amnesia before his death – definitely not the worst way to go. How will Jade and Kennedy get along all alone, with the head of the pack sealed into a coffin?

**12th: Heather Lotus, District 12 Female – Struck by lightning**

I love writing nihilistic tributes so much, and the second I read Heather's form I knew I would have fun putting her character into writing. She could have taken advantage of her coldness and been a big hit as a ruthless killer, but the games are far from fair, and besides, I've got quite a bit of butterfly-ing I'd like to do with her surviving ally. More imminently, the mining district faces its next loss, though after over a century they're all too used to it.

* * *

**Remaining Tributes (11): Jade, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Fawn, Turner**

**Alliances:**

**Careers: Jade, Kennedy**

**Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky**

**The Guys Next Door: Dock, Turner**

**Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton**

**Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle, Fawn**


End file.
